


Words

by DorotheaV



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DorotheaV/pseuds/DorotheaV
Summary: Pre-series AU.
Relationships: Will McAvoy/MacKenzie McHale
Comments: 48
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

**Friday**

11:40 PM

He gives her one last lingering kiss and slides off her. As he angles himself onto his side, he throws one hand across her chest, grasps her forearm and pulls her tightly against his body. Twisting, she reaches over and presses her nose into his hair and inhales deeply. The strands are clean and fragrant and the warmth of his head carries the earthy, sweet and distinctively _Will_ scent to her nose. She could inhale his scent for days. _For the rest of my life_ , she thinks.

“ _Mmmmmh,”_ she sighs.

“What did you say?” he murmurs from somewhere below, burrowing closer to her. His voice is sleepy and soft, and she can’t resist the urge to drop another kiss into his hair.

“Nothing,” she says. “You smell good.”

He grabs her hip and pulls her flush against his pelvis. “You feel good,” he replies, stroking her upper thigh as he kisses the delicate skin on her arm exposed by the crumpled bedsheets. His fingers send tantalizing waves of pleasure throughout her body and she toys with the idea of rolling him on his back so she can have her way with him again, but before she can decide he’s pressing his face against her neck, inhaling deeply and emitting a low sigh. “Smell good, too,” he murmurs.

She marvels at the connection between them. In ways big and small they are perfectly attuned to one another—so much so that the intensity of her emotions frightens her sometimes. She is lost to this man. _Lost._ She’s in deep now, way, way, too deep and if he doesn’t feel the same way it’s going to upend every aspect of her life.

His breath is warm against her skin and she smiles as she uses his forearm as leverage to scoot down so she can look him in the eye. She needs to discover the depth of feeling in his gaze, to find out whether he'd been as affected by their lovemaking as she had. _Take what you need from me, MacKenzie_. _I’ve got you._ And as the sunlight burst behind her eyelids he'd held her close and murmured words of tenderness—if not love—in her ear.

But now, his eyes remain shuttered. She tries to coax him into opening them—this time with a kiss to the nose—but he doesn’t move. And so, disappointed, she takes the opportunity to catalogue his features. Although he isn’t handsome in the conventional sense there’s something magnetic about him, something unmistakably _male_. Whatever it is, it makes her heart beat faster every time she’s within six feet of him. As she smooths a lock of sweaty hair back from his forehead—his unkempt appearance so different from the man the rest of the nation sees—a sensation of pure love and absolute joy surges through her and with it comes a nearly ungovernable urge to say it aloud. The compulsion is so strong it feels like the words are about to be ripped from her throat.

And they are ... almost.

“I—” . _.. love you_ , _Will. I'm hopelessly, helplessly in love with you._

But at the last second something inside her, some sense of self-preservation buried deep inside her warns that such a revelation may not be welcome. Not yet, anyway. Will cares for her, certainly (and she sometimes suspects he may even be in love with her (if the way he looks at her and touches her is any indication)), but he hasn’t said the _words_. Neither has she, though she’s felt them keenly for the last four months. Indeed, the sentiment threatens to burst from her mouth every time he’s within shouting distance. She wants to scream it from the rooftops or across the newsroom or, at the very least, whisper it in his ear.

She loves him. She _loves_ him.

The problem is that some sixth sense is telling her it’s too soon. But is it really? Can it be? They’ve been inseparable, waking and sleeping, for the last six months. Does he really need more time?

On the off-chance he does, she makes a split-second decision to err on the side of caution. “... I'm ... crazy about you, Will McAvoy.”

He cracks open an eyelid and stares at her, wide awake now, his blue eyes guarded and wary. The words hang heavily between them like soaking wet laundry on a clothesline and she holds her breath, awaiting his reply. Oh, yes, she can see his eyes now but it's of little comfort—not now, not when he looks like a fish on a line, his lips parting and closing and parting again around an utterance that's apparently too cumbersome to deliver.

But he does deliver it, eventually.

And what he says is singularly underwhelming: “I … like you, too, MacKenzie,” he finally says, softly. "A lot."

 _Whoosh._ All the air leaves her lungs. It's not just the words, but the tone—the unmistakable warning in his voice to not come any closer.

 _Stupid me. Stupid, stupid me_.

And then the urge to flee is so strong she has no choice but to start backing up, gracelessly attempting to disentangle herself from his arms. Indeed, she sits up so quickly all the blood rushes to her head. Still, she’s able to swing her feet over the side of the bed before his lips have closed on the last syllable ( _“_ MacKen _zie”_ ).

 _Must get out of here. Must end this. Quickly. Why, oh why do we have to work together?_ “I should go,” she says over her shoulder. “I have to get up early tomorrow.” Her voice sounds hollow to her own ears but at least it seems to betray none of the humiliation roiling her stomach. She gets to her feet, tugs the sheet off the bed and wraps it loosely around her waist, grateful the darkness conceals the furious pink that’s appeared on her cheeks. Nimble fingers feel around the cool hardwood floor until she finally locates her hastily discarded bra and panties. _There. Not much farther now: I just have to get into the bathroom, into my clothes and out of this fucking apartment._ _And out of this fucking relationship._

“MacKenzie,” Will says from behind her.

She plucks her undergarments off the floor along with her blouse and skirt and walks toward the ensuite, forcing herself to slow down even as her body urges her to hurry. The creaking of the bedsprings tells her he’s standing up and then she hears his soft footfalls padding along behind her. “Come back to bed,” she hears him say. He places one warm palm on her shoulder but she can only shake her head because words—and higher thought—fail her. All she can feel is the import of his reply as it ricochets in her head.

_I like you, too._

_A lot._

Jesus.

She’s been so stupid. So _fucking_ stupid. “Mmhnmm,” she says, shaking her head vehemently once again as she resumes her trek to his ensuite and it’s a fresh slap in the face when he lets her go without protest. Once inside, she closes the door and locks it, fighting to prevent the tears pricking her eyes from turning into a deluge.

She doesn’t turn on the light. The darkness is a merciful refuge that conceals her humiliated reflection in the mirror and she dresses quickly, swearing softly when she knocks her knee hard into the side of the vanity as she’s stepping into her skirt. But the sound of cartilage crashing into the hardwood is loud, so he calls to her from the other side of the door. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” she calls. When she’s finished, she puts her back against the cool door and stands there, trying to gather the courage to face him and make a graceful exit. When she thinks she has herself under good regulation she takes a deep breath, fiddles behind her for the doorknob and turns it. She opens the door and there he is, wearing only his boxers and a semi-ashamed expression that makes her want to thrash him. _You can’t even pretend you don’t know what you’ve done, can you?_ She doesn’t make eye contact as she pushes past him and walks to the chair next to the dresser.

“MacKenzie.”

She picks up her purse and laptop case and slings both over her shoulder. As she steps into the heels he’d presented her with this afternoon she can't help wincing: they’re so uncomfortable she’s tempted to go barefoot. The shoes _almost_ fit—just a half-size off—and he’d looked so pleased when he’d presented them to her she simply hadn’t had the heart to tell him he’d gotten her shoe size off her sister’s pair. The stiff leather bites unforgivingly into her toes and she vows to toss them into the nearest dumpster as soon as she gets home (after all, there's no need to stand on ceremony now; they’re just a gift from a man who merely _likes_ her).

Straightening up quickly, she says, “I’ll see you Monday.” 

“MacKenzie.”

 _Why the fuck is that the only thing coming out of your mouth_? She heads for the elevator without looking at him, presses the call button and traverses the few steps to the hall closet where she tugs her light fall jacket off the hanger.

”I thought we were going to spend tomorrow together,” she hears from behind her.

 _So you CAN say something different? Amazing._ She slings the jacket over her arm and forces herself to turn around. “Were we?” she says lightly. And then the self-preserving half-truths start coming fast and furious. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot.”

Although he looks a little crestfallen at her reply she perseveres. “I have an early-morning run with Ellen and then we’re going to grab breakfast. We’re spending the afternoon together and then we’re going to Michael’s for a barbecue.” (The part about the barbecue is almost true; Ellen _had_ invited her but she'd begged off in the hopes of spending Saturday evening alone with Will.)

 _Without me?_ Will knows Ellen and her boyfriend Michael. _When the hell did I stop getting invitations?_ He doesn’t press it, though, because even if he’s incapable of doing anything about it, he has a pretty good idea why he’s suddenly on MacKenzie’s shit list.

“Well, how about later?” he insists. “After the barbecue? You can call me when you get home and I’ll come over.”

She shakes her head and swallows. “You know … I’m working on something that will probably take the rest of the weekend.”

“What?”

 _An application for a job I saw yesterday at ABC._ “A story. It’s probably nothing, so there’s no need to involve you just yet.” She forces her lips to curve into a bright smile. “I’ll tell you if anything comes of it.”

“MacKenzie,” he says, walking toward her. He stops in front of her and looks at her searchingly. “What just happened?”

 _As if you don’t know._ “Nothing.” She presses a quick kiss to his temple and backs away as the elevator door opens. “I’ll see you Monday.” She gets into the waiting car and forces herself to stare at the floor as the doors begin to close between them.

“Wait—” he says, but something buried deep inside prevents him from completing that sentence. All he can do is stand there stupidly as the doors close.

And then she’s gone.

_What the fuck just happened?_

Whatever it is, he knows it’s his fault.

But he has no idea how to fix it—short of uttering the words he absolutely cannot—and may never be able to—say.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: allusions to childhood trauma
> 
> Note: This may be a little heavy, but it was inspired by a person I know who has a similar history and similar issues.

It’s the words that trip him up—not the sentiment. After all, he’s human and subject to the same emotions that compel normal people to say the three words he thinks she wants to hear. The problem is he’s _not_ normal: even though he feels the same emotions other people do (and, in fact, feels them for her) _,_ he can’t express them. Not if it means using those three words strung together in that particular order. Just the thought of saying them (though admittedly a much nicer prospect than hearing them) makes his stomach clench in protest.

And he doesn’t need a team of Viennese specialists to tell him why.

It’s a visceral reaction he’s had since childhood, the fucked-up byproduct of a father who would use that phrase to preface beatings and other forms of torture. It was an odd thing for a grown man to say—certainly in their part of Nebraska—and John McAvoy's liberal use of the phrase in public (minus the threats) set him well apart from the other men in Will’s neighborhood. The other fathers Will knew were warm but distant, so ground down by poverty and responsibilities and living that affection for their children was expressed not in words but in deeds: quick hugs and hair tousles and affectionate pats on the back. The same could not be said of Will's father, who used the phrase to address his children almost as often as the other men filled their pipes.

None of the other parents seemed to think much of it (or if they did, they didn't let on) but then again, only Will and his siblings knew the true intent behind the words: they were a warning. An opening salvo to let the kids know an ass-beating (or worse, much worse) was on the horizon. (“I love you, Will,” his father would say, surreptitiously pinching Will hard on the arm as he walked by. “I’ll see you when I get home.”). And with those words Will would start the short trek home to await his punishment, only stopping to empty the contents of his stomach into the bushes.

Will knows he should say those words to MacKenzie, that he’ll have to say them to her at some point, but the thought makes him sick. Literally. And he’s not the only one with this affliction. His brothers and sisters all have it, and none have been able to come up with a satisfactory workaround. Their inability to hear that phrase from—and sometimes say it to—their romantic partners has gummed up more than one relationship. Will has no intention of letting that happen with MacKenzie but the thought of disclosing the reason for his reticence fills him with shame.

But sometimes ... in the dark of night as she lies sleeping peacefully beside him ... he wonders if perhaps there’s a legitimate reason he hasn’t been able to say it. Perhaps his subconscious is trying to tell him something? And, if that’s the case, isn’t he obliged to listen? At least until such time as his psyche gives him permission to do otherwise?

Then again, the events of this evening prove time is running out: she got much too close for comfort tonight. Which means it will happen again—and soon. If he had enough alcohol in his system he thinks he _might_ be able to say it to her (and if he were able to interpret the words the way a normal person would interpret them he would definitely mean them), but he's petrified of what might happen if she says it back.

 _And she will_ , he thinks now.

" _I'm crazy about you,"_ my ass.

He's toyed with the idea of telling her outright, of warning her _not_ to say those words to him, but he simply hasn't been able to: if he did, he'd have to tell her why.

And he can't do that.

Not yet.

\---

**Saturday**

10:00 AM  
He picks up his cell phone and chooses the number one person on his Favorites list.

_“Hey, it’s me. Guess you’re still at breakfast. Call me when you’re finished, okay? Maybe we can have a late lunch before you go to the barbecue.”_

\---

2:07 PM  
She's definitely pissed—there's no mistaking it now, so he calls Keith, his younger brother, who is (as usual) of absolutely no help to him.

He'll try his sister later.

_"Mac, it's me. Guess you’re still not home. It’s too late for lunch, but can we get together before you head out for the night? Call me.”_

\---

6:24 PM  
A creeping sense of foreboding is sneaking up on him. Is this their first real fight? Outside work? He thinks it must be and he hates it.

_“MacKenzie, I know you’re pissed and I think I know why, so will you please just call me so we can clear the air? I hate fighting with you.”_

\---  
  
8:35 PM  
Has she been hit by a car? Mugged? Why the hell hasn’t she called?

_“Mac, be pissed at me all you want but don’t just disappear on me. Call me as soon as you get this, okay? Please. I’m worried.”_

\---

10:09 PM  
 _“Goddammit, Mac, where the fuck are you? I just tried calling Ellen, but she didn’t answer. Are you okay?”_

\---- 

MacKenzie stares at the incoming caller’s name on her cell phone and for the fifth time that day lets it go to voicemail.

Sighing, she throws the phone on the couch before resuming the task at hand.

A new job won’t find itself.

\---

11:42 PM

In a moment of weakness, she listens to her messages (ostensibly in case there’s an emergency to which she should be attending). She rubs her eyes as she hears his voice grow more frantic and hits Call back as soon as the message ends.

She’s grateful he doesn’t pick up.

_“Will, it’s me. I didn’t mean to worry you. The barbecue went late and my phone died. Everything’s fine. I’ll see you Monday.”_

He’s in the bathroom when the call comes in and by the time he reaches his phone, it’s gone to voicemail. _Fuck._ At least she’s okay. He hits Call back but she doesn’t pick up.

Phone in hand, he considers his options. He can go over there right now and they can hash this out, or he can wait ‘til tomorrow.

The problem is that in either case, he’s not sure he’ll be able to give her what she wants.

========

**Sunday**

6:20 AM  
 _“Mac, I’m sorry I missed your call last night. Can we have breakfast together?”_

9:40 AM  
 _“This is getting ridiculous. Will you please just fucking call me? I’m not leaving the house until I hear from you and I don’t have any groceries, so unless you want me to starve you’d better call me back.”_

11:30 AM  
She calls him.

“Hey,” she says when he answers.

He breathes a sigh of relief and collapses into a chair as he presses the phone to his ear. “Hey. I was just about to head over to your place.”

“I thought you weren’t leaving the house.” She sets her mug of tea on the side table and begins to pluck at the threads on the throw in her lap.

“I wasn’t. But I was getting desperate.”

Settling back in her chair, she coaxes the blanket up to her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.” It’s a small lie, but she thinks God will forgive her under the circumstances. 

“It’s okay. How was the barbecue? The one I wasn’t invited to?”

It had been fine—as enjoyable as anything _could_ be without Will. Which is to say not much. That’s the part that scares her. She’s become so dependent on him, on his approbation, on his presence, that being without him just seems _wrong_. She has to reclaim her equilibrium. Particularly since she’s dealing with a man whose affections are so shallow.

She picks up her mug of tea and blows on it before taking a sip. “Ellen didn’t think you’d want to hang out with a bunch of protesters.”

“She thought you would?” 

She sets her tea down and rubs her fingers tiredly across her eyes. “It’s not as if you can hold your tongue, Will. She just didn’t think you’d enjoy it.”

“Did you?

“It was fine. Listen,” she says, sitting up. She wants to end the call gracefully, without acrimony. “I should go. I’ve still got a bunch of stuff to do and—”

“Can I come over?”

She waits a beat. “I don’t think so. I still have laundry and a few other chores and—”

“I’ll do the laundry. You can do whatever you need to do and I won’t bother you. I just …” He twists the cable on the earbuds that are lying on his counter. “I need to see you.”

“Why?”

“Because … I miss you. And I hate the way we left things the other night. I know what you wanted me to say and—”

A tidal wave of resentment washes over her. _No. I refuse to listen to you attempt to justify your worse-than-lukewarm response. Fuck off._

But can she say that? Should she say it? Rather than jettison the whole affair, shouldn’t she just have the balls to tell him what she needs? Theoretically, yes, but just as his childhood has conditioned him to refrain from uttering certain words, hers has conditioned her to be ashamed of articulating her own desires. Which means rational conversation isn’t an option for either one of them; the outcome of this skirmish will be decided with an explosion.

She forces the words from her lips. “Listen, Will. I don’t think we should see each other outside work anymore.”

“What?” he exclaims. “ _Why?_ ” 

“I think we want different things.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Clearly. Which is part of the reason I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“I’m coming over. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He goes to hang up, but her vehement exclamation stops him.

“Don’t!”

“You can’t stop me. We’re going to sort this out and we’ll walk in tomorrow as if none of this shit happened. Just like always.”

“You mean we’ll take separate elevators when we get there so the staff doesn’t talk?”

“You _hate_ workplace gossip! I can’t believe you’re trying to nail me to the cross for trying to protect our privacy!”

That’s not why she’s angry. She’s angry because she’s tired of never knowing where she stands with him. Of feeling that she has to walk on eggshells lest she presume too much. Of having to keep her hand glued to her side in the newsroom when he says something brilliant when all she wants to do is grab his hand and pull him in for kiss. Yes, he’s much higher on the food chain than she could ever hope to be but does that mean she’s unworthy of respect, of the certainty of knowing what the next day or weekend or month will bring? Whether she’ll be spending the next long weekend alone or with him? They usually spend every non-work moment together but it’s usually a last-minute decision on his part (“You coming over tonight, honey?” he’ll whisper right after the last rundown meeting of the day and by then she’s so agitated all she can do is nod happily in relief.).

She’s tired of having to be vague and noncommittal when someone asks what she’s doing for the weekend because _she litera_ _lly doesn’t fucking know_.

She’s been letting him take her for granted and she knows it’s partly her fault for being too afraid to tell him what she needs but she’s _tired_ of it. She loves him, no question. And she’d spend the rest of her life with him if she could. But there’s something in him she’s never been able to touch, a wall she hits whenever she gets too close to his childhood or to discovering how he really feels. Then again, maybe there’s actually no ‘there’ there and she’s simply been beating her head against the wall.

Fuck him. She doesn’t need this crap. She doesn’t need the uncertainty. If he doesn’t want her, so be it. She’s not going to let him define the terms of her life.

“It doesn’t matter, Will. Because I’m not your dirty little secret anymore. It’s over.”

“The hell it is.”

“It’s _over_. I’ll see you at work but let’s keep it professional. I don’t want to see you after hours.”

"Forget it. I’m coming over and we’re going to fix this.”

“Why do you care?”

“What do you mean, why do I care? You’re my _girlfriend_. Of course, I care!”

She shakes her head, furious at his display of willful ignorance.

“Your _girlfriend_? Try _fuck buddy_ ,” she exclaims. “Girlfriends are the people you love, Will. Fuck buddies are the people you like _a lot_.” The derision in her voice shocks him. He does like her a lot! More than a lot! In fact, he likes her as much as one person can like another. Okay, he can see how the word “like” might seem insufficient from her perspective but where the hell does she get off insinuating she’s not his girlfriend?

“You don’t think you’re my girlfriend? We spend every fucking weekend together.”

“We spend every weekend _fucking_.”

“You think I’d want to do that if I _didn’t_ think you were my girlfriend?”

“It’s not enough, Will. Not for me.”

“What is it that you want from me, MacKenzie?”

“I want the _words_. You can’t say them because you don’t feel them and that is not enough for me. We’re just wasting each other’s time.”

“I do feel them! I _do_. I just …” he sighs, closing his eyes. “…can't … _say them_. And you can't—” _either_ , he says, trailing off. The instant the words leave his lips he knows he's stepped in it. Again. After all, what kind of moron can't use the universal currency of romantic relationships?

His reply is met with silence.

"MacKenzie?" He pulls the phone away from his ear and shakes it before putting it to his ear again.

"Mac?" he shakes the phone and tries again.

Still nothing.

"MacKenzie!"

Eventually, it dawns on him that she must have ended the call, presumably after his idiotic reply (though admittedly it's hard to tell these days since they've done away with the audible click).

_Did you just hang up on me? Did you really just fucking hang up on me?_

He grabs his keys, wallet and jacket and heads for the elevator.


	3. Chapter 3

**11:50 AM**

When the doorbell rings, she wipes the tears from her eyes and looks up from the cover letter she’s typing for CNN. _Please, God, let it be a Jehovah’s Witness._ Setting her mug of tea down on her desk, she heads for the intercom, giving herself a pep talk as she goes, one that should work on any kind of unwanted visitor: _I will not give in. I will not give in_.

Of course, it _is_ Will, his disembodied voice wafting up from the doorstep (“It’s me”). Also, of course, her resolve starts to weaken the second she sees his forlorn, marvelous face. This is someone who has become as dear to her as anyone ever has been (certainly more than Brian ever was), and up until two nights ago, she hadn’t been able to imagine two people more in sync. But she knows better now.

She presses the Talk button, takes a deep breath and calls down: “Will, I don’t want to see you. Please go home.”

She watches as his lips press into a thin line. The wounded expression on his face makes her want to rush down and throw her arms around him, but she manages to resist the urge; while his incessant phone calls indicate he _does_ care, his incessant mind games tell another story: who the hell can’t say they love you if they actually do? She can’t figure out what kind of game he’s playing at. Is it just about power? Control? That’s the only explanation she’s been able to come up with and it’s the one she’s hoping will allow her to resist his attempts to browbeat her into submission.

“MacKenzie,” he says from downstairs. “This is crazy. You can’t just break up with me without hearing me out. There are rules.”

“Yes. And one of them is that when one person decides a relationship isn’t working for them anymore, the other person bows out gracefully.”

“I don’t know where you’re getting your rules from, but that isn’t one of them.”

“Will, please. Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 _Yeah, right_. Like he’s going to let even one more hour go by with her thinking the absolute worst of him. He knows how this situation will play out if he doesn’t intervene: the longer he lets her thoughts fester, the more embellishment she’ll add to whatever narrative she’s cooked up in her head about his motivations. But of course, he can’t say that, bound as he is by the conventions of the day (at least according to _The Ladies Home Journal_ he’d paged through while getting his hair cut): _You must respect your partner’s wishes_ , the article had mandated. _Yeah, well, what if your partner is out of her mind?_ _How are you supposed to handle that?_ But the author had seemed content to state only the obvious, so he’d been forced to extrapolate: in such cases, you must _pretend_ to listen to your partner's wishes. He’s fine with that.

“When are we going to talk about this?” he replies in what he hopes is a magnanimous tone.

“We aren’t.”

 _Well, there goes that strategy._ He knows she’s looking at him, so he squares his jaw and adopts what he hopes is a determined, persuasive and righteous expression. “Mac, either talk to me now or give me an appointment, but I’m not leaving until you do. You can toss me a sleeping bag—I'll sleep on the steps.”

_“Will.”_

She can see that a crowd has started to gather behind him, and she watches as one enterprising would-be paparazzo holds his cell phone to snap a picture. Will steps closer to the speaker as if trying to shrink himself from notice.

“People are starting to stare, Mac,” he says in a low voice. “Will you please just let me up?”

She hesitates, but in the end, decides she’s had enough. “No. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Mac—”

“Goodbye, Will.”

She ends the call and he stands there stupidly, blinking. She’s not even going to _see_ him? To give him the _chance_ to explain? Unbelievable. He cranes his neck skyward, hoping to see a fire escape he can climb up, but alas, she lives in a high-rise. Figures _._ It looks like he’s screwed—unless he wants to hitch a ride with the window washers. He angles his head back and stares at the side of the building and discovers they’re already ten stories up. _Can you even climb into people’s windows these days?_ he wonders. _Probably not. Goddammit._

He scans the building in the general direction of MacKenzie’s window and considers his options. He must tell her the real story, but how? When? Part of him thinks he should just spit it out, but the other part knows he can’t risk exposing her to the blind rage that often accompanies those memories. Of peering up at his father as he’d readied his instruments. Of trying to inch away from him, desperate and bawling. Of realizing too late that even if he did no one would rescue him. That no matter how loud he cried he couldn’t stop or change what was happening, and that no matter what he did the pain would continue until his father decided to end it.

No.

He can’t risk his rational voice being silenced.

Not in front of her.

Not in front of anyone.

Deep in thought, he looks down at his shoes until the sound of someone coughing alerts him to the fact that five other people have shown up. _Christ. Don’t you have anything better to do?_ What the hell is the point of taking pictures of celebrities, anyway? Is a picture of Will McAvoy speaking into an intercom really that exciting?

People are thrusting pens and paper and forearms at him now, so he dutifully doles out his signature until there’s not a single bit of exposed skin or crumpled piece of paper left to sign. Then he turns back to the intercom. Should he call her again? He’s just about to press the button when another idiot with a cell phone sidles up to him which makes the decision for him: he probably shouldn’t risk the circulation of a video in which Will McAvoy is told to fuck off.

He digs his hands deep into his pockets and cranes his neck for one last look upward. Sighing, he heads toward a waiting cab.

===

_That evening_

Six times.

He’s called her _six times_ and she’s ignored every single one of them. He gives up somewhere around midnight and falls into bed, disconsolate.

They’ll just have to hash this out tomorrow.

_Monday_

The problem is that she steadfastly refuses to speak to him on any non-work-related subject. Every time he tries, she throws up a wall of ice so thick he can’t penetrate it.

She enters the boardroom seconds before the start of the first rundown meeting, uncharacteristically late. And then she chooses not to sit in her usual spot at the head of the table in order to sit as far away from him as possible. Every member of the staff had seen Will place an extra-hot latte and MacKenzie’s favorite pastry at her customary seat, so it made things awkward when she conspicuously avoided it. Seated beside her protégé, Rachel, she glances furtively between the pastry bag and Will, obviously trying to decide whether she has the balls to cut him in public.

In the end, she reaches across the table, grabs the food and mouths a quick ‘ _Thank you_ ’ to him before quickly looking away. She’s hardly slept and she could really use the caffeine but she doesn’t dare drink the coffee: that would suggest she’s no longer angry with him, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. She toys with the paper cup instead, wishing caffeine could be transmitted by touch.

Though her head is pounding and she seems to be firing on only three of her six cylinders, she manages to facilitate the meeting much as she ever does, the only difference being the brusque answers she proffers to Will’s queries. At the end of the meeting she grabs her untouched pastry and well-caressed coffee and tells the staff she’s working on something that requires her full concentration for the rest of the day. She asks them to send her an email if they need to speak with her (earning raised eyebrows from Will) and purposely sandwiches herself between three people as she leaves the room. That doesn’t prevent Will from trying to get her attention, though, this time by following her to her office. Luckily, she walks faster than he does and by the time he gets there she’s crossing the threshold, setting her snacks on the desk and bolting back for the door. But he manages to force his foot between the jamb and the door before she can slam it shut in his face.

“Mac,” he says. “Can we—”

“Is this work-related?” She knows it’s unprofessional to prevent the man’s entry into her office but the prospect of Will explicitly saying what he feels (or rather, _doesn’t_ feel) is more than she can bear. She doesn’t need to hear _those_ words, thank you very much. He may feel something for her but not enough. And she really, really doesn’t want to hear the extent to which he doesn’t. On some level, she knows she’s being ridiculous but isn’t it enough that she knows the truth? Must he insist on rubbing her nose in it?

“You know it’s not,” he tells her.

She looks down at the foot which is preventing her from closing the door. His eyes follow hers and they both stare at her shoe as she tries, ineffectually, to nudge his foot out of the way but he stands there, immovable. Sighing, she gives up and raises her eyes to his. “Thank you for the coffee and pastry, Will, but I don’t want to discuss it. Please move your foot.”

He steps down on his foot more firmly, places his hand on the jamb and thrusts his chin out defiantly.

“You’re betraying your own principles, Mac. Since when are you the kind of person who refuses to even listen to what someone has to say?”

“I know all I need to know.”

He snorts. “You couldn’t be more wrong. In fact, you’ve got it completely ass-backward. So, are you going to let me explain? I don’t want to leave town on these terms.” He’s scheduled to fly out after tonight’s show for a week-long conference.

“There’s no need to explain, Will. I know how you feel. I don’t need to hear you say it.”

“What I feel is pissed that you won’t even let me speak.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t.”

He opens his mouth to protest but she interrupts him: “Look. Everything will be fine,” she says in what she hopes is a steady and reassuring way. “We’re professionals. We’ll just pretend the last six months never happened and we’ll go on our merry way.”

“Why the hell would we do that? They _did_ happen. And I want them to keep happening.”

 _Of course, you do. It’s fine for you to be the one in charge, to be the final arbiter of whether we do or don’t go public with our relationship, to prescribe the boundaries in which I have to operate. But it’s not enough for me_.

She looks at him, her hands firmly clutching the door handle. Prudence is irrevocably gone, and she pours all her anger into her next words.

“Yes, well, I _don’t_ ,” she snaps, even as her heart and mind cry out in protest. _What are you doing?_ But her self-esteem is tenuous at the best of times and doesn’t she deserve to be with someone who’s willing to commit to her without reservation? Proudly? Boldly? _Openly_? That has never been Will.

Visibly upset, MacKenzie ends a conversation in which she clearly does not want to participate. “Will, I don’t want to argue with you. Please excuse me—I have work to do.”

And with that, he’s dismissed. He looks at her, incredulous. After everything they’ve been to each for the last six months, how can she be willing to cast him aside? It makes absolutely no sense to him but the expression on her face suggests she’s telling the truth. “You’re actually serious about this,” he says in wonder. “You want to break up with me.”

“’Want’ is the wrong word. I just don’t see a way forward.”

“That’s because your eyes are closed.”

They stand there silently, staring at each other before Will finally speaks. “I’m going to go to that conference and give you a chance to cool off. We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

“Will—”

“You are _not_ breaking up with me, MacKenzie. We’ll talk about it when I get back.” 

She doesn't bother trying to argue with him and they spend the next twelve hours avoiding each other as much as possible. Resentment, pain, and anger are too deeply rooted to allow for a different or more cordial attitude and each blames the other for their present misery. When they do interact, they struggle to conquer their rancor and remain civil but their unspoken sentiments reopen unhealed wounds and become a new source of pain.

And every time she's moved by his wounded expression she reminds herself of seven little words:

_“I like you, too, MacKenzie. A lot.”_

By the time the show is over, MacKenzie thinks she will lose her sanity if this goes on. She’s just grateful Will is leaving for his conference. Perhaps they can return to their pre-romance state when he returns.

Better yet, maybe she’ll have a new job.

\-------

_One week later_

Will drags his suitcase into the newsroom a day earlier than his scheduled arrival. He’d watched part of the show from the airport and is pleased to see Elliot doing so well. It’s 9:15 PM, so the newsroom is mainly empty, and he briefly wonders at the presence of a well-dressed, handsome thirty-something guy standing in the middle who’s looking at his phone.

Will’s glad to be back and anxious to sort things out with MacKenzie, whom he hopes hasn’t left for the night and who has continued to ignore the six or seven calls he’s left for her each day. The moment he was in the air on his way to the conference, he’d regretted not forcing her to have the conversation they need to have. As the plane had carried him farther and farther away from her he’d begun to cast back over the last six months, of how close they’d been—emotionally and physically. In light of that, her decision began to seem even more ludicrous. How could she be willing to throw that away? She couldn’t be. She _isn’t_. It’s not possible. Up until the moment he'd pissed her off she'd seemed perfectly happy with him. Perfectly content. Hadn't she said as much with her "I'm crazy about you" declaration?

Where he'd gone wrong was with his tepid response, which had in fact been a bald-faced lie. He's crazy about her, too. More than crazy about her. Barking mad, howling at the mood crazy about her. He'd only meant to put her off with his idiotic "I like you, too" reply and to buy a little more time so he could figure out how to say what she'd wanted him to say to her. Mostly, though, he'd meant to discourage her from saying anything close to that to _him_. Because if she did, there's no telling how he might respond.

Still, his little rejoinder—while admittedly inadequate—was such a small thing. How could it have been sufficient to make her want to jettison their entire relationship? It doesn't make any sense. Which is how, gradually, he'd come to realize over the last several days that she hadn’t really meant it when she’d said she wanted to break up with him.

What she's really looking for is some kind of grand gesture—a declaration on his part.

Which is fine. He'll give it to her.

_As long as it doesn't involve saying that little phrase._

As he makes his way into his office, he sees Rachel the AP putting something on his desk.

“Will, hi,” she greets him with a bright smile. “We thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

“I traded my spot on the panel with someone else. How are things around here?”

“Good.”

“Who’s the guy?” he says, gesturing to the man in the bullpen.

“Vince something.”

“Is he waiting for me?”

Rachel looks at him blankly. “No. You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

“Who, then?”

“MacKenzie.”

“MacKenzie?” He looks at his watch. “Isn’t it a little late for deep background? What story are they working on?”

“Oh, it’s not a story,” she says, raising her eyebrows and speaking in a singsong voice.

“What do you mean?”

She grabs a sheaf of papers off his desk. “It’s a _date_.”

All the hair stands up on the back of his neck. _What the fuck?_

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yep. He brought flowers and everything.”

Will stares out into the bullpen again and notices the bouquet he’d somehow missed the first time around. Rachel carries on, oblivious to the effect this bit of news is having on her boss: “He was joking about how nervous he is. I had to tell him she doesn’t bite—after hours, anyway. I told him—”

“Excuse me,” he says, leaving her mid-sentence.

She watches him stride into the bullpen and greet MacKenzie’s visitor.

“Hi there, I’m Will McAvoy,” he says, extending his hand to the man. 

Vince smiles in recognition and holds out his hand. “Vince O’Malley. From the law office downstairs.”

“You’re waiting for MacKenzie?”

“Yes. One of your colleagues told me she’d be here in a minute.”

“I’m sure she will be.” He glances down at the bouquet of yellow roses in Vince’s hand. “Nice flowers.”

“You think she’ll like them? It’s our first date. I wasn’t sure what she’d … like. Too many ‘likes’ in that sentence. Sorry. I tend to babble when I’m nervous.”

“Tulips. She likes tulips. Pink ones. But roses are great, too. Did you say it’s your first date?”

“Yes,” Vince says, suddenly uncomfortable. “We’re going to the Harlem Jazz Parlor.”

“Really? Your idea?”

Vince looks worried.

“Mac’s not a big jazz fan,” Will tells him. When Vince’s face falls Will pats him on the back. “But she’s a good sport. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Twenty paces away from them, MacKenzie halts in her tracks. Vince was supposed to meet her downstairs and Will _is not supposed to be back until tomorrow._ What the hell is he saying to Vince?

She'd met Vince months ago in the cafe downstairs. He'd been behind her in line and it had registered that he was attractive and looking at her with interest. In the weeks that followed they'd exchanged names, building locations (she was on 43rd floor while he was on the 27th), and professions. He was sarcastic and smart, usually making a snide comment here and there about the building managers or his employer. He'd never actually asked her out because she'd been sure to keep their interactions shallow and breezy, but that had changed yesterday when he'd noticed she was looking somewhat grim. Though she didn't reveal the source of her disquiet (which was the result, despite her most fervent wishes, of missing Will), she'd admitted it had been a rough week. That had apparently been the opening he'd been looking for and he asked her out the very next night. She'd wavered but a moment before accepting. Why not? She wasn't getting any younger.

Will’s jaw drops when MacKenzie suddenly appears beside them and his heart trips a dozen erratic beats. She’s wearing a simple, peacock blue, form-fitting, business dress with her trademarked Louboutin black heels. She looks absolutely stunning and the appreciative way Vince looks MacKenzie up and down makes Will want to punch him. In fact, Will is nearly overcome by a prehistoric urge to claim her as his own, but he manages to keep his baser impulses in check: it would hardly be politic to throw her over his shoulder and carry her off.

“You’re back,” MacKenzie says, addressing Will and she's annoyed beyond measure to discover that it _is_ wonderful to see him. She's missed him so much. _Damn him._

“Yes,” he tells her. “And, apparently, just in time.”

“We can catch up tomorrow,” she says brightly, looking at Vince instead. “Vince, it’s lovely to see you,” she says quickly. “Ready to go?”

Still stunned by just how gorgeous his date is, it takes Vince a split second longer to get the words out than it might otherwise. “Yes,” he agrees, giving her a starry-eyed stare. Will struggles to keep his temper in check when Vince puts his hand lightly on her waist to escort her out.

“Just a second,” Will says, tapping her on the shoulder.

Reluctantly, she turns around to face him, but before Will addresses MacKenzie he makes a request of Vince:

“Please don’t do that,” he says, gesturing to the arm around MacKenzie’s waist.

Vince stands there uncertainly but ultimately does as he’s told and drops his arm.

"Thank you," Will says before turning his full attention on MacKenzie.

“Vince just told me something interesting. He said he’s taking you on a _date_.”

“Yes.” She turns around and addresses Vince once more. “Shall we?” she says, turning her back on Will.

Will taps her on the shoulder again. “I’m not finished. The thing I find so interesting about the whole "date" business is that I know for a fact you already have a boyfriend. And he’s not going to be too happy about it when he finds out you’re cheating on him.”

The few people left in the bullpen look from Will to MacKenzie, stunned as much by the breach in personal/professional protocol as the revelation. ( _She has a boyfriend? Isn’t she married to her job?_ )

MacKenzie’s lips purse in annoyance. “We broke up a week ago.”

“I’m pretty sure that will be news to him.” He turns to Vince. “And I can say that with absolute certainty because I know him very well.”

MacKenzie is forced to address Will’s remark. “He heard me say it loud and clear.”

“He heard you say it and he told you you were batshit crazy.”

MacKenzie rolls her eyes. “The thing about breakups, Will, is that it only takes one person to make the decision.”

“The thing about first dates, _MacKenzie_ , is that you’re only supposed to have them when you’re single. And. _you_. are. not.”

She sighs. “Vince, can you give me a second?”

She puts her hand on Will’s forearm and starts trying to lead him away from prying eyes, but he grabs her hand and tugs her to a stop. He stares at her fiercely, all pretense of goodwill gone and says to her heatedly (and loudly):

“We have one fight— _one_ —over—I don’t know what the fuck— _words_ —and not only do you refuse to talk to me—now you think it’s okay to _cheat_ on me?”

Everyone within hearing distance looks at each other. _What!? MacKenzie and Will?! No way!_

“We’re not together, Will, as I told you last week. It’s _over_.”

“The hell it is. We’re going to have the conversation we should have had before I left and at the end of it you will not be single and you will _not_ be going out with him. So, you might as well make your apologies now.”

“That’s not your call to make.”

“Maybe not, but I’m making it. You’re a low-information voter, Mac. Worse, you’re willfully blind, and I’ve had it.”

“You’re out of line, Will.”

“Me? What about you? You’re kicking me to the curb because I have trouble saying three words?” he hisses. “I can say every other word in the English language but I’m worthless because I have trouble saying that particular _phrase_?”

“You’re making a scene.”

Will is suddenly aware of seven sets of eyes on his face but he pushes through. He is _tired_ of this bullshit. Of being silenced and ignored and rejected over something that _isn’t. his. fault_.

Will’s countenance darkens and his eyes narrow. “You’re right. And I’m going to make an even bigger one if you refuse to have this conversation. I deserve a hearing, MacKenzie. After everything we’ve been to each other, I _demand_ it.”

Her humiliation is complete.

“Okay,” she concedes. “Okay.”

She turns to Vince, who’s standing there, looking as if he’s wondering whether he should stay or go.

“Vince, I’m terribly sorry—can I take a raincheck on—” she starts but Will butts in.

“Don’t bother. You won’t be cashing it.”

She looks at him incredulously, fury rising.

“That is _not_ for you to say, Will. You do know you’re completely out of line here, don’t you?”

“Yes. And I’m past caring. Your place or mine?”

She shakes her head.

“Mine,” she sighs, before turning to Vince, who’s staring at them, agog. “Vince, I’m so sorry. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Uh, sure …” Vince says awkwardly. He looks at the bouquet in his hand and sets it on the nearest desk. Then he turns on his heel and goes while she and Will ignore the stares of their staff.

“Shall we?” Will asks, putting his hand under her elbow and attempting to lead her away. She’d like to jerk her arm out of his grasp but is all too aware of the stares of the people around them, so she allows him to lead her to her office. MacKenzie collects her things as he waits, tapping his foot impatiently.

They go to his office where he grabs his suitcase and they both head downstairs to his waiting Town Car. He opens the door for her and as she slides in, she’s reminded of how much things have changed in a little over a week. They’d done this very thing nine days ago, only then she’d been looking forward to a weekend in bed with him. He’d slid into his seat beside her, put his arm over her shoulder and pulled her into his torso as he pressed his lips into her hair. She’d felt him breathe her in and sigh contentedly, then drop one last little kiss in her hair. She remembers how his fingers had skated over the bare skin of her arm, sending tantalizing little jolts of pleasure throughout her body, and the affection in his eyes when he’d picked up her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it. “You were spectacular tonight, MacKenzie,” he’d said somewhat reverently, thinking of how ably she’d managed to shield him from the mishaps that were happening in the control room. “You weren’t so bad yourself, McAvoy,” she’d replied, remembering the way he’d effortlessly segued from one story to the next without a teleprompter.

“We make a good team, don’t you think?” he’d said, his eyes warm and soft and affectionate. “The best,” she’d answered, kissing him before snuggling back into his torso. She remembers how … for lack of a better word … how _loved_ she’d felt at that moment, and how she’d wondered if this was the weekend she’d finally, finally be able to reveal the depth of her feelings for him.

Now, they’re silent on the way to her apartment and the foot between them feels like an ocean. She wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and climb into his lap but she has her pride, and the sad fact is she now knows how unequal their affection is.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow but swallow it she must.

When she opens the door to her apartment she allows him over the threshold but makes no attempt to take his jacket from him when he shrugs it off. That’s his first clue that she has no intention of letting him stay long and so, he takes his time hanging it up because he won’t give her the satisfaction of hanging it on a fucking hook. He opens the closet door and spends a full minute rummaging around in search of the perfect hanger: he takes one down, inspects it, finds it wanting, puts it back on the rod, takes another one down, inspects it, finds it wanting, etc. Repeat. He does this six or seven times until he tires of the game and finally picks the first hanger he’d chosen. Then he carefully inserts the hanger into the jacket, smooths the sleeves down so they meet in front and hangs the jacket (very carefully) on the rod. Hah. That’ll show her.

Except it doesn’t: when he turns back around, he discovers MacKenzie hasn’t been idle: she’s been making her way around the room, carefully shoving neat stacks of paper topped with videotapes into a blue plastic recycling container.

She’s moving so quickly that if he didn’t know better he might think she had something to hide. _Hmmmmmmm._ And so, quick as a flash, he high-tails it to the last stack before she can get there and picks up a tape.

“Hey!”

He snatches a piece of heavyweight, cream-colored paper from beneath it and holds it up to the light.

“Put that down!” she cries, trying to grab it from him, but she’s no match for his strength, agility or curiosity and before she can wrest it from his grasp he’s put his hand on her shoulder and is holding her at arm’s length. He ignores her struggle as he reads the top half of the letter aloud: “’Bob Reynolds. News Director. ABC News …’”

“Will—”

“’Dear Mr. Reynolds, I’m writing to apply for the Executive Producer position at ABC Nightly News…’”

His eyes move to her face and his expression is pure outrage. She grabs for the paper again, but he raises it high above his head and puts his arm around her shoulder so he can pull her hard into his torso. Clutching her around the back he stares down into her face.

“What the fuck, MacKenzie?! You want to _leave_? Why?”

“I think you know why, Will,” she snaps. “The situation has become untenable. It’s time.”

“What situation?”

“You. Me. I don’t think we should work together anymore.”

“Why? Because I didn’t say what you wanted me to say?”

“Our expectations no longer align. It’s best that I go.”

He snorts in derision. “Forget it. This is _ridiculous_. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Let me go,” she says, struggling against him.

“No.”

“I’m asking you to let go of me, Will.”

“And I’m saying, ‘ _No_.’” He puts the paper carefully back down on the table and, with one hand still around her back, tugs her to the couch where he sits down, pulls her into his lap and puts his other arm around her so he can hold her in place.

“Will. Let go of me.”

“ _No_ ,” he says firmly. Seconds later, though, the defiance in his tone turns warm and pleading. " _Please_. Just stay," he says, and that's all it takes: she stops struggling. After all, his lap is comfortable and if she gets up now who knows when she'll have the chance to sit here again? He reaches out to skate his fingers across her cheek and she can barely resist the urge to lean into him. 

“MacKenzie …” he says, his eyes alight with vulnerability and need. "Before that night ... did you want to break up with me?” His tone is quietly bewildered—as if there are two realities (including one he's never seen before)—and he's being forced to consider the latter. He reaches up and strokes her hair and his expression is so tender and warm she thinks she could happily spend the rest of her life basking in it.

“No,” she says reluctantly. “I didn’t.”

“Then, _why_? We have something extraordinary together, don't we?"

_What we have is what YOU want. Not me._

“I thought we did but now I don’t.”

“You’re wrong,” he says stubbornly. “Look,” he swallows. “I have to tell you something. Why … I can’t say—what you want me to say. I should have told you before, but—”

She raises her hand in protest. “Stop it, Will. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear what you _don’t_ feel.”

“Then how about hearing what I _do_ feel?” he says in growing frustration.

“Not if it’s not—God. I can’t. I can’t listen to you tell me again that you like me a lot. Don’t ask me to.”

“But I do.”

“It’s not enough.” She stands up. “I knew I shouldn’t have let you come up here. Please leave.”

“Honey, please. I …”

She looks at him fiercely. “What? You _what_?”

He sighs. What the fuck is he supposed to say? _The truth_ , his mind says stubbornly. _The truth_. “I can’t give you what you want. Not right now. But I will. Soon.” Even as he speaks, he knows how fruitless an endeavour that will be. As if all he needs is _time_. He’s had forty years to figure out a way through this. But he refuses to dwell on that because at this moment the only thing that’s important is buying some. He’ll figure something out. He has to. “Just give me some time. To figure out how to—”

Indignation wells up in her. “How to what? Talk yourself into _loving_ me?”

“ _No_. I already do!”

She looks at him, bewildered. “You do.”

“Yes! Jesus Christ. Would I be here right now if I didn’t?”

“Then what the fuck are you talking about? What do you need time to figure out?”

“How to say it. How to _say_ it!”

“It’s pretty simple,” she snorts. “I’ll show you how it’s done: ‘I love you, Will.’ Easy.”

The effect is immediate. _Did you just—did you just say those words to me? Those_ words coming out of _her_ mouth, the mouth of a woman he _adores_ , triggers a Pavlovian response in him that is so primal his mind fills with impotent rage. And once again he's lying on the worktable in his childhood basement and all he knows is pain. All he feels is desperation. “ _I love you, Will. I’m only doing this because I love you.”_ Betrayal is too simple a word to describe the torture, the overwhelming loneliness and isolation he feels at those words.

God, he _hates_ those words.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice low and deadly. “ _Don’t_ say those words to me, MacKenzie. Don’t you _ever_ fucking say those words to me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: child abuse
> 
> This is a heavy chapter, folks. Note: the flashback conversations are based on the recollections of a friend who experienced similar trauma.

He stands there, breathing heavily while her eyes widen in shock and disbelief.

Turning her back on him, she walks to the door and opens it. She tries to keep her voice steady even though she is bewildered and hurt beyond words. “You need to leave, Will.”

And then he’s no longer a child but a man staring into the frightened face of the woman he—yes— _loves_. His eyes widen in shame and horror. _What did I just say?_

“No, please. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—” he says, his voice becoming more imploring with each word.

MacKenzie stares at him, her chest rapidly rising and falling, her eyes showing…what? Confusion perhaps, or hesitation—as though she wants to believe him but is not confident she should—and something else he can’t name. He doesn’t know how to reassure her and apologize for his choice of words. It would be difficult at any time, but now, with fear clouding his mind, it’s impossible.

Either way, she isn’t having any of it. “You need to leave or I’m calling the police.”

“MacKenzie—”

“Leave!”

Her rejection of him, her final, ultimate rejection of his true self is too much for him to bear. Because somehow, over the last six months, she’s become his beacon of hope. The hope that perhaps his life will _not_ be forever defined by the ritual abuse he’d endured. He’d opened himself up to her as he never had to anyone. He hadn’t told her everything, of course, because the pain still lurked, and it was easier to pretend it was not there than to acknowledge the horrors he’d buried in the deepest parts of his mind. Long ago he’d learned not to feel at all, that the only safety lay in cutting himself off. That’s how he’d felt until he met her, when he began to hope that one day, he would be able to reveal his true self to her. And now she’s rejecting him. The realization is so devastating he can’t help it: he bursts into tears.

Overcome, he slips to the floor, pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his arms. She’s so shocked, so utterly stunned by his reaction that she can only stand there, watching as he disintegrates. Even though he sits six or seven feet away, she can see his shoulders shaking and the sound of his sobs, so full of anguish, is almost enough to knock her to her knees.

“Will—"

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She closes her apartment door and takes a tentative step toward him. Then she takes another and another. She picks her way past the potted ficus, past the side table that holds the picture of her parents and past the framed picture that hangs on the living room wall of her and Will—the one she hadn’t had the heart to take down—one in which they’re gazing stupidly, besottedly at one another—until finally, she’s standing in front of him. He doesn’t look up; he just keeps sobbing so loudly she thinks her heart might break from the sound. So, she reaches out a hand, bends down and puts it on his shoulder. “Will,” she says quietly. “What’s going on?”

His head jerks up and she watches as he wraps his arms around his torso in a bewildering self-protective gesture. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you."

He takes three deep breaths and forces them out through his mouth. His blue gaze holds hers and what she sees on his face makes MacKenzie's heart lurch. The carefully constructed mask is gone and the sheer desperation in his eyes means he’s laid himself bare for her.

“I should have told you before, but ..." he says. " ... but whatever else you may think of me, you have to know that …"

 _Just say it, you asshole, just SAY it,_ he thinks to himself _._ But … no.

“… I _adore_ you, MacKenzie,” he says clearly, deliberately and with such feeling she thinks her heart will explode right out of her chest. “I _adore_ you. With all my heart.”

The words are inadequate but the sincerity with which they're delivered takes her breath away. And then she's powerless against the urge that compels her to lift her hand from his shoulder and smooth the hair back from his forehead. He closes his eyes and allows himself to savor the sensation of her touch, however short-lived he knows it may be.

“What’s going on?” she says again. She says it gently, soothingly, because somehow, she knows this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the wall that usually guards his deepest self, the one that now lies in ruins at his feet.

He wipes his eyes angrily and forces himself to look into hers because it is imperative that he see her reaction the moment he tells her the truth. If she can’t accept him, accept his past, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

He reaches out his hand to her and she takes it. “Tell me,” she urges him, gripping it tightly.

“Okay. Okay,” he whispers. He rubs his thumb over her fingers, and she isn’t sure whether he’s trying to receive comfort or deliver it. His eyes never leave her face and he takes a deep breath and begins. “The reason I can’t say those words—or—or— _hear_ them—is because that’s what my father used to say—right before he—every time he—”

He stops to gather his courage because he knows everything— _everything_ —is riding on this moment. He has to tell her. _He. has. to_. _tell. her._ Somehow, some way, he must force the words past his lips and past the voice in his head that’s screaming that he mustn’t tell her, that his secret is too shameful, that she’ll never accept him, that she can’t know, that she can never know. The belief is an unrelenting irritation that he wants to scratch and scratch until he reaches blood and claws it from his flesh.

“Every time he did what, Will?” she prompts, even as a cold trickle of fear traverses her spine.

 _Not yet, not yet._ There’s only one way to say this and he has do it in his own way, in his own pattern. He goes on as if he hasn’t heard her. “When I hear those words,” he says slowly, deliberately. “… or think of them … all I can see is that bastard’s _face_ ,” his lips curl around the words and he shows his teeth. “… leering down at me…while he _oils_ …”

“…while he oils …” she repeats in confusion.

“… while he _oils_ ... his instruments,” he spits out.

 _What?_ She knows Will’s father had been _… mean_ … growing up … that was the word he’d used … but he’d never wanted to talk about it and the no-fly zone around the subject had prevented her from probing further. Somehow, she’d assumed the abuse had remained in the realm of words because Will had never mentioned—never even implied—that it had been physical. The thought that John McAvoy might have used _instruments_ —ones that had to be _oiled_ —to torture the boy who’d grown into the beautiful man at her feet shocks and terrifies her.

_That can’t be what you’re saying. That can’t possibly be what you’re saying. Is it?_

The thin trickle of fear grows wider. 

“I don’t understand,” she says slowly, hoping with every fiber of her being that she doesn’t.

Will forces himself to hold her gaze. He has to get through this. He has to finish it, once and for all, even though he’s close to hyperventilating because the memories of being completely and utterly at the mercy of a madman are so vivid.

“He’d say, ‘ _I’m only doing this because I—love—because I love … you … Will.’” _He stops, gulps as the shame threatens to overtake him once more. “He’d say, _‘You have to learn. And pain—’”_ he stops and then with a rush of determination, forces the words past his lips. “… _and pain—is the best—teacher.’_ ”

Will swallows and forces himself to keep looking MacKenzie in the eye. “He did it to all of us. Not the babies but the older ones. He said it to all of us. Right before he—right before he—"

She can feel herself on the cusp of some great, vitally important awareness. “Right before he did what, Will?” she says quietly, even as her heart is pounding so loudly she’s afraid she’s going to miss what he says next. She places her hand on his arm in solidarity even though he knows she has no idea what’s to come. She does it anyway because she is good and kind and pure and if she rejects him again, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. The gentleness of her touch washes over him, leaving in its wake a deep gratitude for her care. She has that power over him: one touch and he feels soothed, feels that there’s a chance, a small chance, maybe, but a chance nonetheless that somehow everything might be well.

But again, he wavers. Can he possibly disclose the most shameful secret of his life to her? And then he decides he doesn’t have a choice. Not if he wants a future with her. So, he marshals all of his courage and pushes through. For the first time in his life he’s about to describe the abuse to someone who hadn’t experienced it firsthand. The last time he’d spoken about it to anyone had been when he was a teenager and they’d never discussed it again because he and his siblings had decided _—_ as if by unspoken but unanimous vote _—_ that their emotional survival could only be assured by burying the past.

And so, he takes a deep breath and summons every ounce of courage he has to vocalize—for the first time in more than thirty years—what he’d suffered.

What had been done to him.

By a man who’d called it _love_.

“Right before he shoved—whatever it was—whatever he was using—up—up—” His breath comes out in short, sharp gasps and he’s about to say it, he _is_ , but then he doesn’t have to because somehow, by some miracle, she understands.

She holds her breath as realization dawns on her in a terrifying wave. “Oh my God, Billy,” she breathes. “He didn’t—”

He nods, a small boy, terrified and humiliated at what this terrible revelation will cost him.

To Will’s astonishment, MacKenzie is on her knees in an instant and wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, my darling,” she whispers as he buries his face in her neck. “My poor, sweet darling.”

She’s suddenly ashamed by her lack of perception and wonders if perhaps a less self-centered person would have paid more attention to the signs she was given. Whether a wiser woman would have noticed his struggles, the way he shut down when she got too close to his past.

“I’m sorry, Mac,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I can’t say it. I feel it, though. I feel it for you. I just can’t say it. Or hear it.” He shakes his head, she can feel him shaking it against her neck, burrowing into her skin, the horror and shame once again overwhelming him. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

 _My poor, poor angel._ She holds him more tightly. “Shhhh, it’s okay, honey. You don’t have to say it. You don’t have to say it.”

She lifts his tear-stained face to hers and presses a delicate kiss against his lips. And then he buries his face in her neck once more and cries anew, great heaving sobs that seem to pour straight out of his wounded psyche and into hers. There is an inaudible roaring, a rush beneath the surface of him as if she can see into him, into the great hurrying current, that forward motion which is his life going on. It empties into her, out of his individuality and into hers. She’s never been this close to anyone in her life. She is face-to-face with the point of his deepest reality—where he is most himself. She holds his emotional life in her hands, and he is completely at her mercy.

She rubs his back and murmurs words of tenderness in his ear until finally, finally, he stills. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into her neck as takes deep breaths, inhaling the warmth and the unmistakably divine scent of his MacKenzie.

“It’s alright. It isn’t your fault,” she murmurs, kissing his hair.

“I should have told you.”

“I understand why you didn’t.” They sit there silently, the walls between them in ruins at their feet. She starts disentangling herself from his arms and as she does a despairing look appears in his eyes. She only understands why when she sees them fill again with tears. “I’m not going anywhere, Will,” she reassures him, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I just want to be able to see you,” she says.

He nods in relief and she takes his hand and settles back to look at him. “I need to ask you some questions, alright?” she says.

He nods again.

“I don’t want to go where you don’t want me to go, but I need some answers. So, if I get too close, I need you to warn me before you explode. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

But now the foot or so between them means he’s too far away from her so she puts her arm around his shoulder, pulls him into her side and drops another kiss into his hair. Exceedingly grateful, he burrows into her and she can feel his breathing start to even out.

“Okay,” she murmurs into his hair. Maybe it would be better for him if she doesn’t make him look at her. “Your nieces and nephews ... are they safe?”

 _Grandpa can’t be around kids,_ his siblings had told their children. They’d taken it at face value and none—except Keith’s teenage daughter Julia—had questioned the statement. So, Keith had told her the truth.

“Yes,” she hears him say from the place his face is buried against her chest. “He’s not allowed near them.”

 _Well, that’s ... something_. “Good. And the neighbors’ children—and grandchildren?”

“He’s in an adults-only retirement community. Kids aren’t allowed.”

“Ever? Not even to visit?”

“No,” he says, and suddenly he’s steady enough to pull back to look at her. He can feel himself starting to disassociate, to don the customary mask of indifference he tries to adopt whenever memories of that horror get too close. “We made sure of that. When we picked it out.”

 _Why the hell are you putting me in this place?_ the old viper had sputtered as the voice of the televangelist raged in the background. _I’ll never be able to see my grandkids now_. Then he had turned his venomous, rheumy eyes on Will, provoking a centuries-old, instinctual response in Will’s reptilian brain. For a split second, he’d felt the old fear, that primal, instinctive anxiety. For a split second, he was a child again, awaiting his father’s punishment. And for a split second the bastard _knew_ it. _It was your idea, wasn’t it, Will?_ he’d said malevolently, turning his beady eyes on his firstborn. _You still want to punish me for something that wasn’t my fault. It was the DEVIL, I tell you, the DEVIL. Not me._ Will had turned away then, the primitive parts of his brain screaming at him to flee from the predator before him. His heart had raced, torn between the desire to laugh and to vomit. God, he _hated_ that fucker. Hated him with every cell in his body.

Now, years later, he forces himself to return his focus to MacKenzie, who’s watching him closely. “So, he can’t hurt anyone else, right?" she says. "You’re sure?”

He nods. “I’m sure,” Will says. “I couldn’t live with myself—none of us could if he—no. He can’t hurt anyone else.”

“Okay.” She hesitates, not wanting to pry until he’s ready, not wanting to step too close to the landmines, but needing to know just the same. “How old were you?” she says tentatively. “When it started? And … when it stopped?”

“I think I was …” he stops, trying to remember the way it happened the first time. He’d known his dad was angry at him for telling him he didn’t want to see his Uncle Pete, but he _didn’t_ want to see him. He didn’t like Uncle Pete. Uncle Pete made him uncomfortable: he was always trying to hug him or kiss his cheeks and his whiskers scratched Will’s face. Uncle Pete smelled funny, too, like his dad sometimes did when he’d had too much to drink from the bottle in the kitchen cupboard. Even so, he’d regretted telling his father “No” the moment the words had left his lips. He was still wearing the cast on his arm when it happened the first time, the one he’d gotten the week before when his father had thrown him down the stairs for wasting water while he was watering the lawn.

Will hadn’t meant to waste the water, but the spray coming from the hose made such interesting patterns when he’d folded the rubber in a certain way. It had been hot that day, too, over a hundred degrees, and the sunlight was bright and unrelenting and seemed to dry out everything in its path. It had felt so good to just drench himself in the spray, to feel the wetness running down his face and arms. And then his dad’s voice, from behind the fence: “What the hell are you doing, Will? I told you not to waste water!” And then his dad’s face, pinched and angry in the way that made Will’s heart race. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I’m sorry,” he’d pleaded as his dad had yanked him by the arm and dragged him into the house. “You’re not, but you will be,” his dad had told him.

Will had been crying by then, apologizing over and over but it didn’t do him any good. His dad had dragged him to the door of the basement, opened it, and shoved him down the stairs. Will had gone flying, bumping his head on every other step and landing with his arm bent awkwardly beneath him. He’d looked up to see his dad’s furious face peering down at him and he’d held his breath, not daring to cry out, even as the pain in his arm made him feel faint. His dad had slammed the door then, leaving Will alone in the cool dark. He’d waited a few minutes then struggled to his feet, his forearm bent unnaturally in two places. He’d waited another five minutes before venturing out to look for his mother, who’d taken one look at Will’s arm and asked their grandfather to drive them to the hospital. They’d never talked about it again, and a week later Uncle Pete had arrived.

“I think I was around four. When it started,” he tells MacKenzie. His eyes have taken on a faraway look now and he’s staring at someplace off in the distance.

 _Oh my God._ MacKenzie puts her hand over her mouth but it doesn’t register with Will. “The first time he did it I still had the cast … my arm was broken … from when he shoved me down the stairs.”

His voice has a flat affect now and she touches his arm to get his attention. When she does, he gives her a blank stare even as memories of that day wash over him.

The day his dad had asked him if he was happy Uncle Pete was coming to visit.

The day he’d answered “No.”

The day the new torture had begun.

It’s the kind that still gives Will nightmares, the kind that, as a kid, he’d prayed every minute of every day wouldn’t happen again. But it did happen. Over and over again. Because Will wouldn’t listen. Because Will was a bad, stupid, good-for-nothing boy. _I still love you, Will. But I need to teach you a lesson because you have to learn._ _It’ll be over soon. But it will help you remember never to tell me “No” again. I love you, Will. Always remember that. I’m only doing it because I love you._

“… so that must have been … four, I think. I think I was four."

She blinks back her own tears and grips his hand tightly. “How old were you when it stopped?” she whispers.

"Eight, I think. That’s when he found Jesus. Sometime around then.”

Four years. He'd enacted his sick fantasy on his children for _four_ years. She’ll wait to ask how often it happened when she no longer feels as if she’s going to empty the contents of her stomach onto the floor. “Did your mother know?”

He shakes his head and looks at her as if he’s far away, lost in a dream world. “He said that if we ever told anyone they’d put her in jail.” His voice is remote, detached.

“Did she ever suspect?”

That provokes a reaction, if only internally. He’s jerked back to the present and considers the question. His mother was so beaten down by her own struggles there’d been an unspoken agreement among the children that she was never to be told. But did she ever suspect? Maybe. The way she’d look at them guiltily when their father ordered them into the basement. The pleading look in her eyes, as if she were asking for their forgiveness. But he doesn’t know if she knew the extent of the abuse, the sick, sadistic, twisted direction in which their father had taken it. As far as Will was concerned, a simple beating would have been a blessing—far better than a violation that was so personal in its delivery, so invasive that Will couldn’t think about it even now without wanting to vomit.

His voice is flat again, disaffected. “I don’t know. Looking back, maybe. I don’t know.”

 _So maybe she DID know?_ MacKenzie thinks. And as she does, a wave of fury washes over her. _How could a mother fail to protect her children?_ But that doesn’t excuse his monster of a father.

“So, he was never arrested. Never went to jail. Never paid for what he did.”

“No.”

_How is that possible? You ruin six lives and you get off scot-free?_

“My God, Will. You say he did it to all of you?”

"Not all of us,” he says, staring off into the distance. “The older kids. Me, Keith, Susie and Sarah. Not the babies," he says, invoking the term his family used to use to refer to his youngest two siblings.

“But with— _objects_ …” she says slowly. “Not with—not with—”

“His dick?” he says flatly, his voice eerily calm and betraying none of the emotions she’d expect might accompany such a question. “No.”

It’s a small mercy, perhaps, but she’ll take it. “What about your sisters? Did he—?”

“No,” he says, his eyes fixed on some spot in the corner of MacKenzie’s living room. “They say he didn’t. He was big on the idea of ‘purity.’ I think that would have been going too far.”

Another small mercy. “Okay,” she says, squeezing his hand, trying to bring him back to her. “My next question’s about you. Who have you spoken to about this?”

That registers and suddenly, he blinks rapidly, alarmed that she would think he would ever risk harming _News Night_. “I would never risk the show, Mac,” he says with some urgency, suddenly animated. “You have to believe me—I would never jeopardize—”

It breaks her heart that he would think she’s only asking because she’s worried about the show.

She shakes her head. “I don’t care about the show, Will. I care about you. I’m asking if you’ve spoken to a therapist about it.”

“No,” he says flatly, and the disconnection is back. “I … thought about it early on, but … fame found me pretty quick and I was worried it would get out.”

She’s silent for a moment, considering. “Your siblings. Do you talk about it with them?”

“No. They don’t—no.”

“Have they been to therapy?”

“I don’t think so, but I don’t know. We haven’t talked about it in years … not since we were teenagers.”

“So, you’ve lived with this for all this time. Alone.”

“Yes.” Not his customary “yeah.” He’s behaving like an automaton again, which frightens her almost as much as his revelation.

She squeezes his hand more tightly and he focuses his blue eyes on hers once more. “Well, that’s about to change,” she tells him. “You need to see someone. Immediately. I’ll do some research, find out who the best people are, and you can choose. This week. We’ll make an appointment this week.”

And then the detachment is gone. “Do you really think it could help?” he says uncertainly, as if afraid to get his hopes up. “It’s so … _ingrained_ … in me, Mac. Embedded. How could I possibly get rid of these feelings?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you can only manage them. But we won’t know if we don’t try.”

He looks at her doubtfully. “What if it gets out? It could ruin my career.”

“Psychologists are bound by law. They can’t disclose confidential information. But even if the worst happened and it _did_ get out and it _did_ ruin your career, so what? Your mental health is what matters.”

“Are you sure? Maybe there’s another way. I don’t want—"

She shakes her head. “It’s non-negotiable, Will. I can’t …” _… be in a relationship with a ticking time-bomb who isn’t getting help._

The thought gives her pause and another follows close on its heels: _but should I be in the relationship at all?_ Apart from the grenade he’s just lobbed, he’d been an ass to her at work tonight and all her alarm bells are still going off. She hasn’t even begun to process this new bit of information, but she knows that even before he’d delivered it she’d felt the arrogance with which he’d treated her tonight keenly. He’d been dismissive. Completely self-absorbed. And the way he’d treated her decision to seek employment elsewhere … _is that the kind of man I want to spend the rest of my life with?_

Suddenly, she isn’t sure. She’s still reeling from this new revelation but something inside her is screaming at her to slow down, to process one bit of information at a time. If he’d told her he adored her a week ago, she’d have said she felt exactly the same way. Because she loves him. She does. She knows that.

But now …


	5. Chapter 5

“You can’t what?” he says, interrupting her thoughts. She shakes her head, unwilling to give voice to them just now. He’s like a word on a page she’s read a million times that suddenly looks strange or wrong. Foreign. But he’s vulnerable and wounded and she can’t be an additional source of pain.

“You need help, Will. To sort through this.”

His stomach clenches at the sound of her voice—so small and distant—and it’s suddenly clear to him that the woman he knows, the one who’d supported him unreservedly, is disappearing. The thought frightens him, but he reminds himself it’s to be expected. Did he really expect her to be unfazed by his revelation?

_No … but … please, please don’t give up on me, Mac, please._

She gives him no sign one way or the other so he tries to read her mind. _What are you thinking? What can I do to convince you?_ She cares for him—he knows that. So, what is it? What has he done that is so heinous, so reprehensible that she simply doesn’t want him anymore? He tries to focus on what she just said but all he can feel is her rejection. It’s a tightening sensation deep in the pit of his stomach and he knows he isn’t fighting against an external enemy but his own body. Then he forces himself to remember that feelings aren’t facts and she hasn’t rejected him. Not yet. Still, he knows he has to keep his wits about him to make sure he responds to what she’s saying and not to what he’s afraid she really means. 

But … Jesus, what she’s _asking_. Doesn’t she know he’d do anything he could for her? Why is she asking for the impossible?

He doesn’t _want_ to go to therapy. Doesn’t want to be forced to recall the abject terror he’d felt every time he'd been ordered to strip naked and clamber onto the wooden worktable _(Am I going to rip this time? Will he stop before I do?)_. How his gorge had risen every time the heel of his father’s hand had pressed him face down against the grooved pine boards. Or the sound of his father's voice as he'd hummed some tuneless ditty while fumbling for the leather straps. He doesn't want to be reminded of how cool the leather felt as it had passed over his thighs and upper back or the way it dug into his skin when his father pulled it hard to fasten the buckle. Or how it took hours and sometimes days for those marks to go away or how often those few minutes of pain contaminated so many other moments of sheer happiness—as when he’d be running, exhilarated, to make it to the next base—only to be taken out of the moment by an acute awareness of his bottom.

More than anything else, though, he doesn’t want to remember how he’d submitted. How he’d never once considered taking his father’s steel pruning shears and cutting the leather straps off the table. How it had never even occurred to him—not until that brand of abuse had long since passed—to take the brick that lay next to the worktable and smash it down on that bastard’s head. Oh, he’d made a few feeble, desperate attempts to free himself at first but when that only netted him a bloody nose he’d stopped fighting and willed his mind to go to some distant place.

He used to tell himself he’d submitted because he didn’t have a choice, but as the years went by and the nightmares in which his siblings shrieked in fear and pain refused to loosen their hold, he’d come to understand the truth: he’d submitted because he’d been a coward. And with that realization came another, more devastating one: it was his fault his siblings never had the chance to lead a normal life because it was up to him to put a stop to it and he never did.

Now, some forty years later—as he stares into the face of the woman who makes his heart stutter whenever he has the good fortune of being anywhere near her—it feels like she’s dangling him over the edge of a cliff. Indeed, her demand makes the fear he’s carried with him since he learned to sit, to stand, to breathe—since the very beginning, when he’d been made to feel there was something rotten and diseased at the very bottom of him—stretch and unfurl. And it’s that fear—not defiance—which is urging him to refuse her request. Because if he does as she asks and is forced to lay everything bare he knows there’s a very good chance he won’t survive.

His throat closes and he swallows, desperately hoping that when he opens his mouth a confident, clear voice will emerge but it doesn’t. And in the end, there’s nothing he can do to stop his voice from going where he doesn’t want it to go, which is high and plaintive. “I know, Mac, but … they’re going to make me talk about it and I don’t want to talk about it,” he says urgently in quiet, shamed tones. “I don’t want to think about it. I’ve spent the last forty years trying not to think about it and they’re going to make me. I never want to think about it again. Can’t you understand that?” he looks at her, his expression beseeching. 

Her heart breaks for him. And while the biggest part of her just wants to gather him into her arms and reassure him, to soothe him and say, _You don’t have to, my love. You don’t have to. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you_ , she can’t. She can’t sacrifice the rest of her life because he’s too afraid to face his demons. Because if she doesn’t insist he go to therapy … and if they stay together … she’ll spend the rest of her life walking on eggshells around him, never knowing what she might inadvertently do to set him off. God knows she doesn’t want to make him suffer more than he already has but the sad fact is that if he doesn’t, _she_ will.

“I _do_ understand, Billy. I _do_ ,” she says quietly. "But even if you don't want to think about it consciously, it's still there ...and it informs every aspect of your life." She squeezes his hand. "And ... the thing is, Will,” she says slowly, her gaze full of regret and compassion. “We can’t have a future together if you don’t.”

“We can’t,” he repeats.

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry. We can’t.”

“Oh,” he says softly. The words hang in the air between them even as they ricochet through his mind. “You want to bring it all out into the sunlight.”

“Yes.”

“To what end?” he says dubiously. “What difference will it make?”

“I don't know. Maybe you can finally be free. Or maybe you can get to a place where you can manage those feelings.” She pauses, trying to collect her thoughts. “All I know is that you’re a landmine, Will. One misspoken word away from an explosion.” She pulls her hand away and what she says next comes out in a rush (though later she’ll wonder why she said it all). “And I can guarantee you your next girlfriend isn’t going to want to spend the rest of her life walking on eggshells around you, either.”

She regrets it immediately. _Fuck. Why did I say that!?_ She didn’t mean—oh, who the hell knows what she meant? Except that no one in her right mind would agree to continue a relationship with someone with Will’s past who wasn’t getting help.

Her words are a well-aimed punch to his stomach. “My next girlfriend,” he repeats. “I see.” He gets to his feet and the expression on his face is so wounded she immediately stands up, too. And tries to walk it back. “I was speaking rhetorically,” she tells him.

“No, you were putting me on notice.” There’s anger in his expression but more than anything else there is pain. She’s hurt him. Badly.

She watches as he blinks rapidly and seems to come to a decision.

 _There’s nothing for me here_ , he thinks _. Maybe anywhere._ And even though it feels like he’s going to choke on the disappointment he knows he can’t let her see that. “You should send those letters out,” he tells her. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns away from her and heads for the door.

 _No!_ She can’t let him go. She’s hollow at the thought of letting him go. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ She doesn’t know. She’s just so frightened at the thought of what her life will look like if he doesn’t get help. “ _Will,”_ she says, rushing forward and grabbing his arm. “That’s not what I—please. Don’t go.”

He doesn’t turn around so she walks in front of him and, not making eye contact, steps closer to him. She puts her arms around him and buries her face in his chest, his thundering heart a sweet, soothing sound that has the same calming effect it always has on her nerves. But he doesn’t respond, just stands there woodenly.

“Make up your mind, Mac. You either want me or you don’t,” he says from above her.

Of course, she wants him. How could anyone _not_ want him?

She pulls back to look up into his beautiful, marvellous blue eyes. They’ve grown cold, shuttered, though the body against her is as warm and strong and alive as ever.

“Of course, I want you, Will,” she says, biting her lower lip. How can she make him understand? She’s not rejecting _him_. She’s rejecting a life in which she’s condemned to anticipate his every move. “I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life on high alert,” she says as she stares up at him.

He exhales softly and tries to master his emotions. _Okay_ , he says to himself, _okay_. He understands what she means. He does. And the more rational part of his psyche reminds him that what she said means at least he still has a chance with her.

Somewhat mollified, he bends his head down to drop a kiss into her hair but stops just short of his destination when he becomes aware of a small voice at the back of his mind. It’s growing louder and more insistent and what it’s saying is that she deserves everything that’s good in the world and someone who can give it to her. _Why the hell should she have to put up with an emotional cripple? What did she ever do to deserve that?_ And then it occurs to him that perhaps he should let her go and that perhaps he _owes_ it to her to let her go.

He’d been too big of a coward to protect them, but maybe he can protect her.

“Listen,” he says, his arms still hanging at his sides. “Thank you. For letting me—well, you know. But I should go.”

 _What?_ She may not know everything she wants from him yet, but she does know she doesn’t want him to leave.

“Why?” she asks.

“I think maybe … I made a mistake,” he says softly, peering down into her face. “Telling you. I shouldn’t have. I should have just let you go.”

“Why?” she repeats.

His lips part and he starts to speak, then stops, then tries again. “I’ve been … selfish, I think. I have no right to put this on you.“ She gives him a questioning look and he goes on. “You’ve been very kind, but I’m pretty sure I’m damaged beyond repair, Mac. You deserve better.”

She can only shake her head at him. “You have _not_ been selfish, Will. You have been strong and courageous and _brave_.” Of course, he’s still being arrogant and paternalistic (after all, it’s her decision to make, not his), but she knows he’s trying to do right by her so she sweetens the retort that’s on the tip of her tongue. “Please stop trying to be noble.”

“I’m not trying to be noble. I’m trying to be fair. I can’t ask you to drag around an emotional cripple. You deserve to be with someone who can tell you what you need to hear.”

She can’t quite hide the exasperation in her tone. “But that’s _my_ decision, isn’t it?” she asks.

Although he doesn’t know why she’s suddenly annoyed with him he presses on: it’s in her nature to be selfless and he can’t ask her to sacrifice herself on his altar.

“Yes, but you’re so … “ He reaches out his hand to touch her cheek and he is struck again by how easily she satisfies his every notion of female perfection: she’s brilliant, funny, gorgeous, fearless and swats his churlishness away with humor and good grace. And even though everything inside him is crying out for him to beg her for another chance he forces himself to say the opposite. “You’re very … _giving_ , Mac. Loving. It’s just who you are. I don’t want to take advantage of that.”

_That's not your call to make, Will. I’ll make it. I’LL make it. So stop being so damned controlling and give me a few minutes to wrap my head around this._

“I appreciate your willingness to let me off the hook, Will, but I’ll be the one to decide.” And then as she peers into his uncertain face her frustration gives way to tenderness. “Besides,” she sighs. “We’re all emotional cripples. In one way or another. I know I am.”

He shakes his head. “You’re not—you’re perfect.”

“Yes, so perfect I couldn’t even bear to let you speak.”

“That’s not the same—”

“No, but it’s imperfect just the same.” Her voice is insistent, firm and despite his decision of thirty seconds ago he’s buoyed by the fact that what she just said means she hasn’t yet decided his fate.

He weighs his options. He needs her more than he’s ever needed anyone in his life and so, in the end, he decides that if there’s even a chance she might choose in his favor he has to take it. “Okay,” he exhales softly. “Okay. You can let me know when you decide.”

But he knows that no matter _what_ her decision is, he is so, so grateful for her care. He takes a deep breath and bends down and brushes his lips across her forehead. “Thank you," he whispers.

“For what?”

"For not … rejecting me. Outright, anyway,” he says, giving her a sad smile.

She grabs his hand as he tries to pull away once more. “Why on earth would I reject you, Will? You were an _innocent_. None of this was your fault.”

“I know, but …” And then he gives voice to the guilt that has plagued him for forty years. “He started with me, I think,” he says, and his voice has taken on that faraway, detached tone again. “I didn’t stop him, so he figured it was okay to continue on down the line. If I’d have been able to stop him … somehow … maybe he wouldn’t have done it to them.” He was the big brother. He was supposed to protect them. And he'd failed.

Her own doubts forgotten, she looks at him, outraged. “You were _four years old_ , Will. _FOUR._ You were a _baby_. How could you possibly have stopped a madman?”

“Maybe if I’d told my mom …”

“You just told me he said she’d go to jail.”

“But maybe if I’d told her …”

“Don’t do that,” she says vehemently. “Don’t you dare do that to yourself, Will. I won’t stand for it.”

 _You … don't… think it was all my fault?_ The expression in her eyes suggests that she doesn’t and as he is forced to consider there might be another way of looking at what happened a bud of hope blooms in his chest. _Could it be true? Could that possibly be true?_

He reaches out to cup her cheek again as another little smile breaks out over his face, this one a little less sad, a little more amused. “You won’t, huh?”

“No.”

He bends down and leans his forehead against hers. “Thank you,” he whispers again.

“You keep saying that,” she remonstrates him. “For _what_?”

“For caring.” And suddenly, he can feel hot tears pricking at his eyes once more. “For caring about _me_.”

 _Oh, my darling. Who could fail to care for you? I would take every bit of suffering you’ve endured and absorb it if I could_. And then the feelings she has for this man are filling her up so completely she thinks she might suffocate. She thinks they might literally kill her. There is simply no more room left in her body for what she feels for him. She puts her arms around his back and holds him as tightly as she can.

“I _do_ care, Will,” she says against his chest and she thinks she, too, might burst into tears. “I care very much. And I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that you and your brother and sisters went through that. It isn’t fair,” she says.

“It’s okay,” he says, smoothing her hair.

She pulls back to look at him and shakes her head. “It’s about as far from okay as anything can be.”

A picture in Will’s apartment suddenly flashes in her mind. Of Will, aged seven, standing solemn and joyless, his arm slung protectively around Susie, two years his junior. Beside them is Keith, holding Thomas, their youngest sibling, the one who’d been spoiled by their father because he’d been such a beautiful baby. And on the other side of Will is Sarah with baby Ellen on her lap. Ellen, the little girl who’d had Will wrapped around her finger from the moment she was born. There was only one thing he wouldn’t—couldn’t—give Ellen—a unified family—but she never stopped trying to wrest it from his grasp. Too young to have experienced the abuse herself and too innocent to have learned of it from siblings who only wanted to protect her, she subjected them to a never-ending stream of attempts to heal the breach. _He’s the only parent we have left, Will, how can you treat him like that? Whatever he did, he’s sorry. I know he’s sorry._ And Will and the rest of the older kids were forced to take it, somehow feeling Ellen’s right to believe some fantasy about their father was worth more than their peace of mind.

“Oh my God, Will,” MacKenzie says, clutching his arm. “That picture. The one of you and your brothers and sisters. On the wall—in the entryway. It was happening then, wasn’t it?”

He nods.

Somehow the image of those beautiful, sweet faces brings it all home for her. He’d done it to _them_. Forced things into _their_ perfect, innocent, defenceless little bodies. _My God._ And then she’s nothing but enraged, consumed by an anger that’s so powerful she wants to get on the first plane to Lincoln and murder that fucker in his bed. “ _Bastard_ ,” she bites out. “I want to kill him, Will. I want to _kill_ him,” she says, her face flushed with anger.

“Thank you,” he says, gently squeezing her shoulder.

“I want to pull his fingernails out. I want to dump him in a vat of boiling oil. I want to shove the biggest, sharpest blade I can find right up his evangelical—”

“I know,” he says, peering down into her face. “I _know_. And I thank you for it.”

“How could he, Will? How _could_ he? He was supposed to protect you—not—not—” She claps her hand over her mouth. This isn’t helping him. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“I understand. It’s a lot to take in.”

They stand there, swaying silently together, each lost in their own thoughts. After a few moments, he presses his face into her hair and allows himself to be soothed by her delicious fragrance, the scent of vanilla and warmth and something else that’s distinctively _her_.

“You smell so good, Mac,” he murmurs, lost in the delicious sensation of being so close to her. “So sweet,” he says, kissing her hair as she embraces him more tightly. “So, so sweet. I …” He trails off.

When he says nothing more, she pulls back to look up at him. “What?”

“ … adore you,” he says, his voice cracking. “Truly. You have no idea how much.”

The look he’s giving her—full of tenderness and warmth and affection—makes her stomach do a somersault and at that moment she knows resistance is futile: her doubts are nothing in comparison to the profound affection she feels for this man. The thought of how much he’s endured, how much he’s had to overcome makes her fall in love with him all over again and not for the first time.

She’s fallen in love with him dozens of times since she’s known him; it happens to her again and again and again: in quiet moments when he’s not necessarily doing or saying anything remarkable and in small moments like when he’s offering a word of encouragement to an inexperienced colleague or when he realizes she’s hungry before she does and disappears, only to reappear twenty minutes later with her favorite lunch from downstairs. She’s usually in the middle of a conversation with a staffer when it happens, but he never interrupts, merely slides the heavy paper bag across her desk, gives her a sweet smile and exits the room. Those are the times she thinks her heart will explode with love for him, when she thinks, “Dear God, you’re wonderful.” And right this second, it’s happening anew.

“Oh, Billy,” she says, holding him more tightly. “You _are_ sweet.”

He dips his head down to capture her lips and she responds hungrily, desperately, because she loves him. She _loves_ him. And, as it always is between them, once again she feels as if there has been no feeling before this. That her world until now has only been in pale colors and only now is she fully aware of how rich this world is—not only in sights but also in sounds, tastes and touches.

And then she remembers her fears for the future. “Wait,” she murmurs against his lips.

“What’s wrong?”

She pulls back and gazes at him intently. Too much is at stake. For both of them. She can't let this go. “Therapy. Do you agree to go?” He starts to protest and she puts her fingers over his mouth to shush him. “I lo—I adore you, Will. You have to know that. But it’s _non-negotiable_. Will you go?”

Jerked back to the present, he is immediately on the defensive and despite his best efforts can’t help rolling his eyes. “You have an inordinate amount of faith in mental health professionals, Mac. I know people who have come out of therapy more fucked up than when they began. What if it just makes things worse?”

“We’ll find the best person for you.”

He can only shake his head. She just doesn’t get it: how spectacularly _wrong_ things can go if you land in the wrong therapist’s office. “Come on, Mac. Look at _Paul_.”

“Your friend with PTSD?” 

“Yes! He wasn’t always like that. He went to the wrong therapist, started wallowing in his memories and now he’s a hypochondriac whose neuroses have taken over his life."

 _Score one for Will._ Paul is a mess. Can’t stop talking about all the abuses that were heaped upon him as a child and forever turning the conversation back to himself and the injustices he’s suffered.

"More importantly," Will continues. "He's annoying as _hell_. You want that to happen to me?”

“You’re already annoying, but if it gets any worse you can count on me to rein you in.”

“Very funny. That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Mac.”

“I know exactly which point you’re trying to make, Will: you don’t want to go. I get it.”

He stands up straighter. “You may be comfortable with using me as a guinea pig but I’m not.”

She steps back from him. “So, that’s it, then? Conversation’s over?”

“Not over—just … tabled. For now.”

“I’m sorry, Will. That isn’t good enough.”


	6. Chapter 6

“ _Mac_ ,” he says in frustration. “ _Please_. Will you just—"

“No, Will, I won’t,” she returns. “I’m not going to put myself in the line of fire unless you’re actively working on this.” He sighs and her expression softens. “Listen,” she says. “I _know_ therapy’s a crapshoot. But it’s the best option we have. If we do our due diligence and find you the very best person there is, _will. you. go_?”

He rubs his hand tiredly over his eyes. She’s not going to back off and he’s going to lose her if he doesn’t agree _. Fuck._ He guesses he doesn’t have a choice. But that does _not_ mean he’s happy about it.

“Yes,” he says reluctantly, helpless fury rising at the thought. “I’ll go.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

She reaches for the back of his head, pulls his face down and presses a gentle kiss to his lips but he’s too amped up on the fear of what’s to come to respond in kind. He needs her. He _needs_ her. God, he needs her. It’s just—why is she insisting on putting him through hell? Anxiety is radiating off him in waves and every muscle in his body is taut as he pulls her hard against his body and crashes his lips down on hers, possessive and determined. He thrusts his tongue into her mouth roughly, without preamble, and though she freezes momentarily she recognizes the uncertainty roiling beneath his surface so she lets her weight fall against him and meets his probing tongue with her own, giving as good as she’s getting. She rakes her hands through his hair and when she thrusts her pelvis against him— _hard_ —he’s forced to take a step back. She follows, bringing her hands down to squeeze his ass with both hands.

It’s only when he presses his lips against hers so hard she’s afraid she’s going to taste blood that she uses her considerable powers of persuasion to slow the kiss down. Slowly, sensuously, gently, soulfully, she caresses his mouth with her lips and her tongue, trying with every caress to transmit a message: _It’s okay, my love, it’s okay. I’ve got you,_ but it doesn’t penetrate his senses and he continues to kiss her roughly until she’s finally forced to take a step back from him, breathless. She puts her hands on his forearms and gazes up at him. “I’m _not_ going to throw you into the ocean without a lifejacket, Will. I’ll be with you every step of the way. It'll be alright. I promise.”

 _You can’t make that kind of guarantee. You have no idea what will happen once I start sorting through those fucking memories._ “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mac,” he hisses. “You have _no_ idea what’s to come. _None_. You can’t. It’s impossible. You want everything to be fine so you’re assuming it will be. But you don’t _know_.”

It would be so easy for her to try to railroad him into submission, to pick the top psychiatrist in Manhattan off RateMyMD and hope for the best but she knows he’s right. They need to do this the right way. Methodically. Carefully. With due diligence.

She exhales softly, defeated. “You’re right. I don’t. What do you suggest, then?”

“I don’t know. Clearly, whatever I’m doing right now isn’t working but I need you to promise you’ll be careful with this. That you’ll be careful with _me._ ” He gesticulates with his hands in frustration and the crude light makes his eyes shrink into darkness, bringing into relief the intensity of his gestures. He looks tormented. “Not just … _blithely_ set things in motion without considering the consequences. I’m like fucking fine china where this is concerned, Mac—one wrong move and I’m gonna break into a million pieces.”

“I get it.”

“Do you?”

“ _Yes_.”

He forces himself to take a deep breath, to consider this whole fucked-up debacle from her perspective. “Look … I adore you. I feel … _everything_ for you. So, I will do it. But we need to take our time," he says helplessly. "To find the right person and the right approach.”

“Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. What do you need from me? Now? What can I do?” she asks him.

He steps closer to her and with a sudden movement bows his head and joins her lips—still tender from his earlier kisses—to his. He closes his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips. They press upon his brain as upon his lips as though they are the vehicle of a vague speech: _I adore you. I need you._ She skates her hands up his back, smoothing her hands across his shoulders and tries to convey with her touch that he can relax, that he’s not alone in this, that they’ll face this together, and that she’ll be by his side for as long as he needs her to be. And soon, he isn’t probing her mouth roughly but returning her kiss delicately, sweetly, with no less passion than before but it’s gentler this time, less vehement. And with each press of his lips she knows that she loves him with a blind instinct beyond all reason, with all his defects.

He breathes her in and allows himself to relax against her, reminded once again of how she has always helped him find his better self. This moment is no exception. But he has to know. Once and for all he has to _know_. Whether he can count on her. Whether he can afford to let himself be _himself_ _._ “Listen,” he murmurs against her lips. She opens her eyes and reluctantly allows him to pull his head back. “There’s something else you should know,” he tells her, staring down at her with the blue eyes she loves so well.

Her eyes widen. _Dear God._ _Another secret?_ “What?” she says.

“Nothing bad,” he says quickly. “At least … I hope you won’t think it is.” He leans his forehead against hers, compelled by some unknown force to lay himself bare for her. “I meant what I said, Mac. I adore you. And when I think about the future, what I want, what I wish it would be, you’re all over it. In my ear… in my bed …” he swallows before forcing the words past his lips. “Sitting at a table in a house in the suburbs helping our kids with their homework.”

“Oh,” she breathes as her heart trips a sudden staccato beat.

“That’s what I want,” he whispers. “If you decide you want to keep going, that you want to keep going with me … would you be able to live with that? Knowing that’s where I want it to go?”

She hesitates and he quickly interjects, “I don’t mean to put you on the spot … it’s just that … now that you know everything … and … now that you know where I’d like this to go … I guess I’m wondering if … we’re on the same page.”

“You’d like to lock this down.”

“Yeah,” he says hopefully.

She takes a deep breath and gazes at him with an expression that makes his heart thud wildly in his chest.

She can read his mind. “I’m not saying no, Billy, okay? I’m _not_ saying no.”

“You’re not.”

“No, but we need to talk.” She tugs him back towards the couch. “Sit.”

He does as he’s told and looks at her warily, his heart racing.

“You have to understand, Will. You lobbed a grenade at me tonight. On the one hand, I feel exactly the same way about you as I did that night…when I almost said the words. Which I now know … would have been disastrous.”

“And on the other?” he asks. 

"If you’d described your vision of the future to me two weeks ago, I’d have been thrilled. I’d have been in total agreement with you. But now … now, it’s more … complicated.”

At that moment Will discovers that the most dangerous emotion in all of human experience is hope because nothing hurts more than having it raised only to be dashed again.

“Complicated,” he repeats. “Because of what I told you.”

“No,” she corrects him. “Not really. Well, a little. But mostly, no. It’s mainly because of what happened tonight. At work. With Vince. And here. When you found out I was looking for a new job.” And then she catalogues the ways in which she finds him wanting: “You were controlling and dismissive and arrogant.”

 _I was ...what?_ He thinks back over the events of this evening and a flash of insight begins to illuminate his past behavior. Earlier in the evening, he’d been too angry to admit she’d been correct about his arrogance and too self-righteous to be properly humbled by her reproofs. But he isn’t now. He’s embarrassed. Still, unpleasant as it is to hear she thinks he's defective, at least his defects are within his power to change.

"I’m sorry.”

"Why did you think it was appropriate to behave that way with Vince?”

He hesitates. What can he say? That all he could see was red when Rachel told him why the man was standing in the middle of the bullpen? He’d been furious. Hurt. Bewildered. All at the same time.

"I was jealous. I couldn’t believe you were going out with him. Not when … not when …” He falters.

“Not when what?”

The ending to the sentence that pops into his head is _you belong to me_ , but that’s not it. Not _quite_ it. Still, he says it anyway and hopes a suitable qualifier will be close behind. “Not when … you belong to _me_ _."_

She raises her eyebrows at him.

Ah, there it is. The qualifier: "I don't mean your body or your mind,” he says quickly. And he doesn’t. Not really. He means her regard. Her _affection_. He only has one heart to give and he gave it to her and since he’s no longer in possession of it he couldn’t possibly give it to anyone else. He’d just assumed it was the same for her. “I mean your affection. I thought it belonged to me in the same way mine belongs to you.”

“And that precludes me from making my own choices because…?”

“It doesn’t mean you can’t make your own choices. I was just surprised you were able to make that particular one is all.”

“Meaning?”

“I couldn’t do it,” he says, trying not to allow the affront he feels anew to seep into his voice. “I couldn’t date anyone else.” It’s true. No other woman existed before her. All who had come before were now shapeless figures left somewhere in the past without a name or history. Now, there is only MacKenzie McHale, opinionated and stubborn.

“ _Will_. Be serious. You dated plenty of people before me.”

“Yes, but that was before I met you,” he says. “I am _completely_ locked into you, Mac. Just as I was hoping you were completely locked into me.” He pauses and looks down. “It hurt to realize you don't feel the same way.”

"Oh, Billy," she whispers, putting her hand on his arm. "I _do_ feel the same way. I was just trying to pretend I didn’t.”

His eyes swing up to hers and he’s irritated all over again. “Well, it pissed me off. When Rachel told me you were going out with him I couldn't believe it. Not because I think you’re my personal property or anything, but because we’re a _couple_ , you know? A team. As bonded as any two people can be … or I thought we were. I couldn't understand how there was room for anyone else in your mind. I still can’t,” he huffs.

She reaches out to stroke his cheek. "There isn’t. Not really. I did it because I'd convinced myself that even though you care for me our affections are unequal."

"They aren't,” he says, his voice laced with indignation. “Or, if they are, I’m obviously the one at a disadvantage."

"That isn’t true, and you know it."

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one accepting dinner invitations from strangers.” _Well, hopefully strangers._ He has no idea how long Vince has been in her orbit.

 _Fine_ , she thinks _._ She’d have been beyond hurt if some random woman had shown up ready to whisk Will away so she can’t really fault him there.

She takes a moment to try to get at the root of what’s troubling her. The controlling tendencies, the arrogance … those are small things. He could curtail those in an instant if he wanted to. What _is_ it then? What’s holding her back? She’s silent for a moment and soon becomes aware of a voice deep in her psyche, a whisper, barely audible, but it’s there and saying—somewhat selfishly, she knows: _"But I want the words_.”

Is that the crux of it? She rolls the idea around in her head and as the moments pass she becomes more and more convinced that it is. Oh, she could get by without them if she must, but she doesn’t think their children … here she pauses. _Children_. _Will’s_ children. Holy crap, is that where they are? It’s what she wants, it’s what she’s wanted since she first laid eyes on him nearly a year ago, when his blue eyes met hers and the earth had shifted.

Great love comes not just from the head but from below the neck, from the gut, and that’s where they’d both felt it. Somehow, they’d both recognized—in an instant—a rapport so powerful each of them felt they’d been injected with something. His eyes had widened and they’d both lost the power of coherent speech. She’d stammered. He’d punted. Afterwards, neither could remember what the other had said. As she looks at him now, she still feels that all-consuming attraction to him but it’s laced with something else: fear. And apprehension about the future.

She loves him, she does. But she wants the words. And she thinks maybe their children will need them.

He’s staring at her, waiting for her to weigh in, but she can’t—not yet—because even if what she wants _are_ the words, in what universe could she reasonably expect him to give them to her? She’d be asking him to behave the way a person whose life hadn’t been characterized by abuse would behave. She berates herself for being so selfish. _What kind of monster are you?_

_But …_

_… maybe there’s a way he can get there?_ the small voice says. _Don’t I owe it to myself and our future children to ask?_

She decides to take a chance. “But the arrogance … the controlling behavior … those are small things, really. Things you could change if you wanted to.” She takes a deep breath and squeezes his hand. “If I’m being perfectly honest, Will, what troubles me more _are_ the words. If things go the way you want them to go … and, truthfully, the way I’d like them to go … there will be children. And I would like for them to feel free to say those words to their father … and to hear them from him in return. I think that would be important.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking down.

“I’ve hurt you,” she says, and her voice is a welcome interruption to his secret thoughts. He _is_ hurt, but he doesn’t blame her. He can’t blame her. He’d been an ass tonight and he’s also an emotional cripple. What the hell does he have to offer her, really? No, he feels nothing but understanding. If his face appears upset to her now, it’s at the pain of his past behavior.

“No. I appreciate your honesty.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Will. I feel more for you than I’ve ever felt for anyone in my life but I’m worried about the future.”

“I understand.”

MacKenzie tilts her chin up to meet his gaze square on. They lock eyes for a long moment, and Will hopes she can see the sincerity in his.

She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Do you think that with therapy … the right kind of therapy … maybe the kind where they gradually desensitize you through repeated exposure … do you think someday you might be able to say the words … and hear them, even if it’s always hard, even if it never comes naturally to you?”

“If I could fake it, you mean.”

“Yes. If that’s what it takes, then, yes.” 

She stares at him—breath caught in her lungs—and awaits his reply. His lips part and he starts to answer but then stops.

What the hell is he supposed to say?


	7. Chapter 7

"You really want me to fake it?"

No. Not exactly. What she wants is a safety valve so she doesn't explode. A way to release the unrelenting pressure of the words on constant playback in her head. She supposes they could come up with an alternate phrase but she doesn't _want_ an alternate phrase; she wants that one. Because that's the one that plagues her, the one that clamors for release every time she's within six feet of him. Truthfully, she doesn't know how much longer she will be able to contain the storm she is becoming: already the suppression of the words has become an agony. Too often she feels as if she must rigidly guard the potential explosion of the phrase as if it were a bomb. 

"No," she answers. "That came out wrong. I don't want you to pretend to feel something you don't. I want you to be able to use those words to express what you already feel. And to be able to hear them from me." She looks at him, trying to figure out a way to convey the jumble of emotions in her psyche. "I feel so much for you, Will. And what I feel _are_ those words. You have no idea how hard it's been not to say them. They're on my lips a hundred times a day and I can't say them and sometimes it feels like they're choking me. I'm not exaggerating when I say it's been a terrible burden."

He sighs. What the hell can he do? She's asking him to learn a new language. To take the phrase he associates with torture out of quarantine. Can he do that? Is it within the realm of possibility?

"I understand, Mac, I do. But that phrase ... it's so fraught for me … so … laden with meaning. How can I possibly give you what you want?”

“I don't know. I’m sorry, Will. I’m so sorry to put this on you but would you at least be willing to try?”

He hasn’t the first fucking clue as to how he could give her what she wants but as the defensiveness wanes he starts to become aware of just how tired he is of being the same him he’s always been. Of making the same mistakes, repetitively stumbling after the same small ego strokes, being caught in the same loops of anxiety and defensiveness. And then he remembers the words of an economist-slash-psychologist he'd interviewed on the show last year. She'd said the human mind is an interrelated operation of two systems of thought: one fast, automatic and often irrational—comprised of instincts, emotions and learned associations—and one that is slow, deliberative and conscious—which oversees and modifies the other. Could his second system correct the errors of his first?

As he gazes upon MacKenzie's anxious face he decides he owes it to her to try. After all, isn’t the key to a successful relationship understanding how your partner wants to be loved and doing it? He has to try to change. For her sake, certainly, but maybe for his own, too.

“I’ll try,” he says. “Maybe … somehow … I could learn to attach the same meaning to those words as you do." He sighs. "It’s the natural way of things, isn’t it? In our culture, anyway? Besides, our kid shouldn’t grow up thinking he's unloved just because his dad’s fucked up.”

She nods, grateful he's willing to try. They sit there silently, lost in their own thoughts. The soft glow from the floor lamp over his shoulder illuminates his features and as she stares into his blue eyes she curls her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. Now that he’s opened up the floodgates there’s so much more she wants to know about his past but she knows she has to tread carefully. “I have so many questions, Will, about what happened to you,” she ventures. She sees his guard go up and waits a beat. “But I don’t want to push you unless you want to tell me about it. Do you?”

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath before exhaling softly. “No. Not yet. Maybe never.”

She’s silent for a moment, considering. “Okay, I won’t ask you about it. But … it isn’t because I don’t care, or …that I don’t want to know. I _do_. But … I’ll wait until you’re ready. Maybe with a therapist …”

_Jesus Christ. Again with the fucking therapist._

He knows her heart is in the right place but the reminder that he’s going to have to spend god-knows-how-many hours on some quack’s couch makes him shudder. Still, the fact that she wants him to be sane isn’t really something he can hold against her.

“Maybe,” he says carefully. He closes his eyes and leans his forehead against hers.

“Okay,” he hears her say, her breath soft and sweet against his lips. “Can I say this, then?”

“Mmmmmh.”

She lifts her chin, kisses his forehead and he pulls back reluctantly, waiting to hear what she has to say. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you would trust me with this,” she whispers.

His gaze holds hers and as she looks at him his heart stutters in his chest.

“There’s been a wall between us since the beginning and I could never figure out what it was," she tells him. "And now it’s gone. I can see you. So, whatever the reason, I’m grateful for that.”

He bends forward and presses a quick kiss to her lips and luxuriates in her gaze: it's warm and soft and sweet and loving.

“And now it’s just you and me and we can be honest with each other, right?" she says as she toys with his hair. "No more secrets? Nothing between us but the truth?”

He nods and she goes on.

“We can be as close as two people can be, and I want that,” she whispers. “I want to know you, Will. I want to know who you _are_.”

Her words are warm and comforting—like food for the soul one so desperately craves—but he hesitates. “What if you don’t like what you see?”

“I already like what I see. Well, except for the …”

“Asshole parts?”

“Yes, those.” She leans her forehead against his. “Luckily, you tend to keep those fairly well hidden.”

“I’ll try to revert back to form.”

“Thank you.”

“So, we’re okay?”

“Mmmmhh,” she sighs and gives him a delicate kiss that he wishes would never end. “I’m glad you told me, Will,” she says after a few moments. “Because maybe I can help you with it. You’re not alone in this,” she says, gazing at him with an expression of such warmth and tenderness he thinks he might die from gratitude. “Not anymore. Let me share your burden.”

He exhales softly, amazed at his good fortune. She knows everything now and she accepts him. In spite of _everything_ , she accepts him. Suddenly, it feels as if a gigantic weight has been lifted off his shoulders and he wants to kiss every inch of her body.

But he doesn’t because he suspects she has more on her mind.

“Does that mean you no longer want to quit?” he says tentatively.

“I never _wanted_ to. I just thought … it would make things easier. If I didn’t have to see you.”

“But you’ve changed your mind, right?”

“Yes.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. "Listen,” he says, leaning back into the couch cushions and wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “I _am_ sorry. About the way I acted earlier.”

“I accept your apology but it’s something we need to talk about. You seem to think you can set the terms of our relationship and it isn’t fair. We have to be equals.”

He nods. “I never thought we weren’t ... but uh, enlighten me. What terms are we talking about? Besides the words?

She hesitates. It’s always been so difficult to articulate what she wants. Embarrassing. As if somehow, she's being overly demanding in desiring to have her needs met. But he’s asking her, so she forces herself to speak.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but … I have a hard time expressing what I need. And between your controlling tendencies and my need to go along things have gotten out of whack. I want to be able to tell you what I need and I want you to be able to listen. Respectfully. I haven’t felt that was the case. Recently, anyway.”

“Oh," he says, immediately embarrassed. "I'm sorry. That you haven't felt you could be honest with me.” 

“It isn't all your fault. I've willingly let you take the lead. I just want things to change."

He shifts slightly and she settles herself more comfortably on his lap. "Okay, so, what else?” he asks. “What else do you need from me that you haven't been getting?"

More confident now, she continues. “I want our relationship to be public knowledge. At work, anyway."

When it seems like she has more to say but doesn’t he prompts her in the right direction. “Go on.”

“Not because I want the attention,” she says quickly. “But because I want to be able to hold your hand or kiss you when I want to.”

He smiles and bends forward to kiss her nose. “I’m pretty sure the word is out as of tonight, Mac. Or, it will be tomorrow morning. But I’m thrilled to hear you say that.”

“Why?”

“Because now I’ll be able to kiss you goodbye when we go our separate ways in the morning. And when I miss you in the middle of the day.”

She pulls back to look at him. “Really?”

“Really. I’m tired of living in a straitjacket, Mac. I’ve desperately wanted to kiss you every moment of every day since I met you and now I can,” he says, stroking her cheek. “I thought you wanted to avoid workplace gossip. Otherwise, I'd have let the cat out of the bag a long time ago.”

 _Well, that was easy._ Silly her. All along she's presumed to know what was in his heart and mind and has in fact ascribed the absolute worst motives to him without trying to validate her presumptions. She's been biased and she's had massive blind spots and she vows not to take things at face value in the future.

"What else?" he asks.

"Well," she says, toying with his shirt collar. "I'd like a standing appointment with you … maybe on Wednesdays … when we talk about what we’re doing the next weekend. And we can decide … together.”

 _This is the moment_ , he thinks as he takes a deep breath.

“That’s fine," he says, "... but wouldn’t it be simpler if we just lived together or maybe did something more … permanent?”

Tendrils of joy spread through her. _Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?_

 _“_ Are you proposing, Will?”

“’Depends on what your answer would be. If it'd be "Yes," then I am. Definitely. But if it'd be "No," well … I guess my question would be … what would I have to do to change it to "Yes"?”

She licks her lips and gives him a warm smile. “I see.”

“So … tell me," he says, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Which question should I ask?”

She knows they're moving at breakneck speed but she can't imagine—even with this evening's revelations—a man more perfectly suited to her than he is. As far as she's concerned, he's oxygen and she's trying to breathe. She harbors no doubts about their longevity as a couple. They'll have years in which to deepen their connection, to experiment, to regress, and even to fail. She feels certain there will always be a place she hasn't gone yet with Will and that there will always be something about him she hasn't yet discovered. Besides, experience has taught her that if you procrastinate in your choosing, you will inevitably have your choice made for you by circumstance and she's not willing to let that happen. In the end, it's all of that that allows her to say, "I think you might safely ask the first one.”

A megawatt smile illuminates his features. “Can you let me up, then? I want to do this properly.”

She scoots off his lap and he kneels before her.

He takes her hand and when she peers into his face she sees his eyes—despite his seeming ease—are shining with emotion.

“MacKenzie Morgan McHale, you are—by far—the best thing that has ever happened to me," he says, his voice cracking. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she says promptly.

His smile grows even brighter and he gets to his feet, sits down on the couch beside her and pulls her into his arms. “I adore you,” he says, kissing her hair.

“I—" _love_ "... adore you, too.”

“So …when do you want to do it?" he says in a rush. "Can we do it soon and have another one with your family when—”

Her own giddiness and the proximity of his body turns her thoughts elsewhere. “Maybe we should talk about it tomorrow?" she says, skating her fingertips across his cheek. "It’s late.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not really. But I’ve missed you, Will,” she says, kissing him, her eyes opening from behind heavy lashes. “My bed isn’t comfortable anymore—not without you in it. I haven’t been able to sleep.”

“That makes two of us.”

She smiles and his mouth moves softly on hers, then more boldly, until she feels only the taste of happiness on her mouth. Once again, she feels she’s reached her home in him; they are one in feeling and in thought. She starts to unbutton his shirt, strokes his chest and places a soft kiss upon the spot where his heart is beating. She raises her head to look into his eyes and he gives her long, slow smile and kisses her again. He uses one arm to encircle her shoulders as the hand on his other travels down, along her belly, her hips, her thighs—then under the hem of her dress to slip between them. Reaching up, he slides the fabric covering his target to one side and her body shivers in anticipation, even before she feels his caress inside her. His lips withdraw to allow her to moan in delight and he spreads soft kisses across her throat, then traps her mouth again with his own, just as the sensuous pleasure from his strokes threatens to shatter her entire being. She closes her eyes, leans forward and buries her face in his neck as she abandons herself to his ministrations.

“God, Will. I’ve missed you so much,” she murmurs. “I need you so much. Please. Please.”

“Please what, honey?” he says into her hair.

“Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” She tries to spread her legs wider to give him greater access but her dress is too tight. “Can you unzip me?” she says in frustration. “Please.”

He takes his hands away and reaches behind her as she twists impatiently, trying to give him access to her zipper. “Hold on, sweetheart. Hold on,” he says. Too impatient now, she gets up off his lap and presents her back to him. He stands up and seconds later she hears the satisfying sound of her zipper being pulled down. Shrugging out of the dress, she allows it to fall and pool around her ankles, then turns around, steps over the dress and closer to him. She’s just about to give him another kiss but the strange expression on his face stops her.

He’s staring at her body and is obviously displeased by what he sees. _Were you—w_ _hy the HELL are you wearing that!?_ he thinks.

She looks down and it’s only then that she realizes she’s in his all-time favorite sexy bra and panties set, one she usually wears when she wants to make him howl at the moon.

“Were you planning to sleep with him tonight?” he asks.

“ _No_ ,” she says, reaching out her hands to him. “I like these. That’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he says, clearly unconvinced.

“Billy, I _wasn’t_.” And it’s true. The thought of sleeping with Vince tonight hadn’t even occurred to her. Vince was a sweet distraction. A balm for her bruised ego and heart. Nothing more. Which makes her feel slightly guilty for even accepting his invitation in the first place.

Will takes a deep breath and reminds himself that she's committed to him. That she just agreed to _marry_ him, for Christ's sake. And that sulking is no way to begin an engagement. He forces himself to relax. “Okay,” he says.

She reaches out her hand to him, leads him to the bedroom, lays down on the bed and closes her eyes. She hears him removing his clothes and doesn’t open them until she feels him leaning over her.

He supports himself on his elbows, then smiles as he caresses her face. “Hey,” he says affectionately. “You falling asleep on me?”

She lifts her head to capture his lips. He tastes like warm honey and she feels so much for him the only thing that matters is getting as close to him as she can. And then the idiotic refrain that so often plagues her during these moments starts dancing in her brain. _I love you. I love you_. _You belong to me, Will. Me. Only to me._ He’s her man and she’s his woman and that’s all there is to it. He dips his head down to kiss the skin on her chest and she moans in anticipation as his fingers move to the delicate clasp on her bra. When he undoes it, he groans at the sight of her beautiful breasts falling free. He puts his mouth over one nipple and caresses the skin on her other breast and suddenly she is consumed by a frenzy of need. His lips, his tongue, and his whispers start building a fire inside her.

He moves up to give her a deep, soulful kiss that makes every nerve ending in her body light up and then her mouth is freed as his kisses go lower. He tastes and savours every newly revealed spot, making her shiver at each touch. Again, he explores the beauty of her breasts, tantalizing each one with kisses and strokes which become more and more eager as he conquers her body.

She opens her eyes and smiles as she meets his tender gaze. God, she loves him. Maybe one day she’ll even be able to say it. Her face and her body arch toward him as he strokes her legs, then she lifts her hips so he can pull her panties off and then he’s pulling her legs apart before slowly lifting them around his waist. Leaning forward a little, he finds his way inside her. She gasps, feeling him strong and deep, slowly taking possession of her being. He keeps gazing at her, while his thrusts become longer, slower, more powerful. His hands caress her shoulders, her arms, her face, then brush over her breasts and capture both as his thrusts increase.

As he moves within her the intensity of her feelings becomes a conflagration and suddenly the only thing in her mind _are_ the words. They’re on her lips, too, and it takes everything she has to hold them inside. Of course, they’re always on the tip of her tongue during their lovemaking but tonight it feels like the words are about to be ripped from her throat. As the feelings get stronger she wraps her legs around him and tries to follow his movements but her frustration only grows and the release she’s chasing gets farther and farther out of reach.

 _The other phrase_ , she thinks. _Could it work?_ She rolls it around on her tongue before allowing it to slip from her mouth. “I adore you,” she says.

“I adore you, too,” he says immediately. He says it over and over again, gazing at her with a blazing intensity that leaves her in no doubt of his sincerity. She says it again, too, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough to capture the essence of the emotion, the depth of her feelings for this man. _I love you. I love you_. She curses herself for being a native English speaker; after all, it’s just her bad luck that he could accept _I love you_ in any other language but the one she’s compelled to use. The words are on a constant loop in her head and she just wants to scream them but she can’t, and as the minutes pass and the intensity of her feelings grows she begins to feel like a giant pressure cooker, a bottle of shaken champagne with a cork that can't be popped.

And in the end, even though he's doing everything right, there’s nothing she can do to prevent the pleasure from fading away.

He can see the frustration on her face.

“What do you need?” he asks her. He's so close, so close himself but she’s nowhere near where she needs to be so he redoubles his efforts until it becomes clear she’s finding what he’s doing annoying. “It’s okay,” she tells him. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about me. You go ahead.”

He pauses. She’s never said _that_ before. Slowly he starts trying to ramp her up again but he can tell she’s only growing more irritated. “ _Will_ ,” she tells him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not going to happen but it’s fine. Go ahead and finish.”

He stops moving and stares down at her. Go ahead and _finish_? As if this is a procedure to be executed instead of an act of love? What does she take him for?

“What’s wrong? Am I doing something …”

“You’re fine. You’re doing everything right, okay? It’s me. It’s … what’s going on in my head.”

“What’s going on in your head?”

“Nothing. Just … it’s late. Go ahead and finish. It’s fine.”

“MacKenzie, I’m not going to finish without you, okay? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

She doesn’t want to get into it. There’s nothing to be done about it and if she tells him he’ll feel guilty. She’ll just have to think of a way through it before the next time.

“It’s nothing you can help me with, okay? I’ll figure something out. Just finish so we can go to sleep.”

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Slowly, he withdraws from her, rolls off, flops onto his back and puts his hand over his eyes.

“Why did you stop?” she asks him. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t just because I can't.” She turns toward him, reaches down and wraps her hand around him. “Here, let me—” she says. She raises herself up on one elbow, leans down and presses her lips against his as she begins to stroke him up and down but he stills her hand. “Mac, _stop_. I don’t want to—not without you.”

She withdraws her hand and looks at him. “Are you sure? How will you be able to get to sleep?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“ _Will._ ”

“I’ll be fine.” Of course, he won’t be and in fact sees a surreptitious visit to the bathroom as soon as she drifts off, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Whatever you say,” she says sleepily. “Let’s just go to sleep then, okay?” She turns to face him, throws one arm over his chest and burrows into his arm.

He puts his arm around her shoulders, kisses the top of her head and tries his best to ignore the erection that is encouraging him to abandon every one of his gentlemanly instincts. He shifts uncomfortably in the bed as he tries to decide the best way to get through the rest of the night. Tell her he’s changed his mind and that he _would_ like to do the first thing she suggested? No; if she can’t get there, he doesn’t want to. Let her finish him off? No (for the same reason). Find out what the hell is going through her mind and _then_ make a quiet trip to the bathroom? _Bingo_. “Mac,” he says, skating his fingers up the forearm lying across his chest. “Will you tell me, anyway? Even if I can’t help you? I’m not going to be able to sleep until you do.”

She cracks an eye open and turns on her back once more. “It doesn't matter and it isn't worth talking about. Everything's fine."

"It _does_ matter," he tells her. "It matters to me."

She sighs. "Okay. I'll tell you. But promise me you'll let it go, okay?”

"I'll try, but I can't make any promises."

His voice is tinged with alarm which signals to her that he's _not_ going to let this go when he hears about it and she yawns, suddenly exhausted. “Oh, never mind. There's no sense talking about it because it can't be helped. Please don't worry about it.” She lifts her head, presses a kiss against his temple and turns over. “Goodnight.”

“Hey. Not so fast,” she hears him say. He turns over, presses his torso against her back and pulls her against his body. “Talk to me, will you?” he says, kissing the back of her neck.

“ _Will_ —” she whines. “It’s late and there’s no point in talking about it. Everything’s fine. Go to sleep,” she says, her voice heavy with fatigue.

“I can’t. Not until you tell me what’s bothering you.”

“Besides you, you mean?” She’s exhausted. Will the man ever let her be?

“Yes,” he whispers, nuzzling her ear. “Besides me.”

“God, Will. _Fine_ ,” she groans and turns over. “I’ll give you five minutes but then we have to go to sleep.”

“I’ll set the timer.”

He’s rewarded with a slight smile. It isn’t much, just a curving of her lips, but he’ll take it.

“The problem,” she says, raising herself on one elbow and putting a hand on his bare chest. “… is that my feelings for you are … _intense_. Powerful. To a degree you would not believe.”

He reaches out to stroke the loose tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck and bends forward to place a gentle kiss on her forehead.

“And …. the whole time you’re kissing me … or doing … what we were just doing … the stronger those feelings get … until they're so strong I can barely keep them inside. And when it gets to that point those words are the _only_ thing in my mind. It’s an incantation. I’m chanting it in my head.” She holds his gaze. “I just want to scream it, Will. Over and over again. But I can’t and I have to keep biting it back and it takes me out of the moment. It’s … frustrating, that’s all. I’ll figure something out.”

_Fuck._

“Is it always like that?”

“It is …” she says, slowly, “But … tonight it’s out of control. After everything you told me, I guess I feel … closer to you and… having to stifle it … just suddenly became unbearable.”

He exhales softly. He understands the kind of frustration she's talking about because it was exactly the same for him until tonight when he could finally use the phrase that’s always in _his_ mind, the one he’d been too afraid to utter before lest she say anything close to that back to him.

 _Is there any way I can_ …?

God, he _hates_ those words.

 _But maybe … maybe_ …

He makes a decision then. He has to try.

“Go ahead,” he tells her, apprehension bubbling in his chest. “Say it.”

She looks at him incredulously. “You just spent an hour telling me how much you hate that phrase, Will. Why the hell would it suddenly be okay for me to say it? Besides, I _did_ say it and you bit my head off.”

Of course, she’s right, but too much is at stake for him to not even attempt to give her what she needs.

“But you weren’t saying it to me,” he protests. _“_ You were … it was a figure of speech. You weren’t using it to tell me how _you_ feel about _me._ If you did, maybe it wouldn’t be … maybe I could … I don’t know. Just try, okay? Let’s see what happens.”

“And if you explode?”

“I won’t. _I won’t_. Just … but first … maybe you should tell me what those words mean to you so I can think of that … when you say them.”

She considers the question. What do those words mean to her? In relation to him? “It’s a … pure, exalted, profound, _beautiful_ emotion. Adoration. Reverence. Peace.” She leans in to kiss him. “Absolute joy.”

The most exquisite woman on the planet adores him. How the hell did he get so lucky? He starts trying to psych himself up. _Okay. I know what to do now. All I have to do is assign her meaning to the words and forget the definition from my childhood._ _Easy enough, right?_

“Okay. So, when you say the words, I’ll try to hear them that way. Go ahead. I’m ready.”

“Will—you just _told_ me you can’t—”

“Jesus Christ, Mac. Will you just fucking _try_?”

She shakes her head. “I’m afraid to. You didn’t see your face when I said it before. I thought you were going to throttle me.”

“I would never do that.”

“I don’t know, Will. You scared me. It didn’t seem like you were completely in control.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. But I don’t think even you know how you’d react.”

“I want to try.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to give you what you need. And I don’t _want_ to react that way. I want to be normal.”

“But you’re _not_ normal, Will. And wishing you were isn’t going to make you that way.”

“So, you don’t trust me not to hurt you.”

“I’m not saying I think you’d hurt me. I’m saying I don’t know what you’d do.”

She may not know what he’s capable of, but he does. He would never hurt her. _Ever._ Even when she said it before his impulse was only to get her to back off—doing it forcibly never crossed his mind.

“I would _never_ hurt you, Mac. _Ever_. You can trust me. I swear. Just … I need to try.”

“Why? I don’t get it.”

“Because I want to give you what you need. And maybe … maybe I need it, too. To try to break the … the fucking _stranglehold_ those words have had over my entire life.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, Will? Because if you’re wrong … and it turns out you _can’t_ handle it … and you do something … _unacceptable_ …” She takes a deep breath and what she says next comes out fiercely, in a rush, and even she is unsure exactly where it comes from except the look in his eyes when she said it before had chilled her to the bone. “… I will break up with you and I will quit—effective immediately—and you will _never see me again_. Do you hear me? So, you’d better be damned sure you know what you’re doing.”

He gulps. Shit. He’d really scared her before. “I understand. I wouldn’t put you at risk. Please. Say it.”

She waits. Exhales. Gathers her courage. “Okay,” she says softly. “Here it is.”

He braces himself. Wills himself to remember her definition of the words and not the one from his childhood. To feel them. To feel what _she_ feels for him. _Pure … exalted … joy_ … _okay, okay_. He braces himself as he stares down at her. He focuses on her expression, the emotion in her eyes.

She lifts her head up and captures his lips before pulling back to gaze at him intently. “You mean everything to me. _Everything_. I could not feel more for you. It’s not possible.” She takes a deep breath and stares into his eyes, hoping to convey … through her expression and the words … how much he means to her. Although tinged with apprehension, when the words leave her lips it’s such sweet, sweet relief to say them aloud.

“I love you, Will.”

Nausea fills the pit of his stomach and his heart thrums triple time as he teeters on the edge but he knows this is the biggest emotional fight of his life and he cannot, will not lose. Everything, _everything_ is riding on this moment. And though his anxiety has risen to a ten out of ten he orders himself to remain calm. To focus on _her_. On what _she_ means: on the message _she’s_ trying to convey to him. 

She holds her breath awaiting his response but it doesn’t come. He takes a deep breath, exhales softly and seems to struggle to control his emotions.

But, still … nothing. No verbal response.

“I _love_ you,” she says again, this time with more feeling.

He reminds himself that she’s not his father. She’s not delivering a warning. She’s expressing an emotion that is good and pure. As he reminds himself of that salient fact he can feel the anxiety start to recede. Not much, just a bit, but it’s enough to give him the emotional space he needs to be able to begin formulating his response. He forces himself to focus on his own feelings then, on that wellspring of emotion that bubbles up inside him whenever he looks at her and tries to assign a new name to describe it in his mind. What he feels for her isn’t merely adoration. It’s affection. Attraction. Admiration. Passion. Tenderness. Commitment. It may be patently conventional but all of those things taken together mean _love_ , right? The word normal people use to describe that feeling? _It’s like learning a new language_ , he thinks. _People do it all the time,_ he tells himself _. I don’t just adore you, I love you. Love. Not adore. Love. Love. Okay, okay,_ he thinks. _I can do this. Here goes._

He stares into her eyes and allows the warmth, the tenderness of his feelings for her to suffuse him. He focuses on that, _only_ on that, and it’s enough to allow him to get the words out. “I … love you, too,” he says softly. There’s a little hitch between the “I” and the “love,” but he’s pretty sure it’s barely noticeable.

She does notice, but it’s enough. More than enough. And she will remember this moment for the rest of her life. _Oh my God_. Everything in the universe grinds to a halt and she’s nearly undone by the sacrifice she knows he’s making in uttering—let alone hearing—that phrase. She has no idea how those few mundane words strung together in that particular order falling from _his_ lips can produce such a profound surge of joy in her, but they do. God, they _do_.

She leans forward in a rush and kisses him.

“Say it again,” she tells him.

“I love you.”

His voice is steadier now—firm, without hesitation—and she stares at him in gratitude, her eyes brimming with tears. “Can I say it again, too?”

He swallows. “Yeah. Go ahead.” He steels himself for it and this time the words, when delivered, produce a bit less anxiety. And even though he thinks he might just be getting the hang of this he decides repetition might be the best inoculation against the negativity he's always associated the phrase, so he asks her to say it again and she does. She says it over and over again and though the words continue to provoke an unpleasant reaction in him there’s something else there, too—something else he can choose to hold onto and to focus on: the words mean she cares for him as much as he cares for her and _that_ is a stupendous, glorious, beautiful thing.

And just like that, the jagged edges between them begin to heal.

She rewards him with a beatific smile and bends to steal a kiss while his hands return to the sweet possession of her breasts. They spend long moments kissing each other and repeating the words and she luxuriates in the freedom of finally, finally being able to say what she feels. The phrase still produces the same threads of anxiety it's always produced in him but the obvious relief she feels in saying it makes tolerating it a worthy sacrifice. Eventually, he finds his way inside her again and as his thrusts grow harder and faster her thoughts vanish, lost in the whirl of sensations that make her head spin and her heart beat wildly.

She says the words over and over again and he does, too, mainly because saying them provokes such a glorious reaction in her: every utterance of the phrase seems to increase her pleasure tenfold and she caresses his skin with kisses that make him think he's going to lose his mind. She wraps her beautiful long limbs around him and desperately holds him as close as she can. Their passions are perfectly matched and they are incapable of stopping. MacKenzie struggles to open her eyes to meet his gaze and eventually, after a time that seems as long as the night, they reach their fulfilment together, in a final fierce crescendo that leaves them utterly consumed in their bliss. For a long moment, they remain in complete silence, with their bodies still united in a tight embrace.

In this moment at least, words are useless.

_THE END_


End file.
